The Colorless Green
by Frog-kun
Summary: AU future fic. In a world where Mashiro never went to Sakurasou and instead meets Sorata as an adult, she is trapped by the shackles of artist's block and he by the shackles of convention. Somehow, they are drawn to each other in a quest to rediscover Mashiro's lost artistic muse. The past, however, is filled with secrets they cannot even begin to imagine. Sorata/Mashiro.
1. I - Lost in the Eye of the Beholder

**Author's Preface: **I'm not generally the type of writer who likes to explain all his intentions in notes, but after writing a few chapters, I've come to think a bit of preamble is necessary simply because of the nature of the story I want to tell.

This is an AU, but I have endeavoured to capture as much of the _feel _of the original series that my ability as a writer can let me. All conscious changes from the canon stem from two things only: Mashiro's lack of positive influence over the characters and the fact that they are simply older and more mature. However, this is not an attempt to write a cynical, bittersweet or "realistic" story. To do so would corrupt the essence of the series. This may be an M-rated story, but I do not intend to write lemons either.

This is a story about art and what it means to be an artist. Above all, this is a love story, because all art is inspired by love of some kind. If love did not exist, then neither would art. The two are interchangeable.

I hope that for anyone who has ever considered himself or herself an artist, this story holds a special place in your heart.

**Part I: The Picture of Sorata Kanda**

**01 – Lost in the Eye of the Beholder **

After all these years, he still couldn't find it in him to desert a stray cat.

Sorata Kanda's three-room flat was hardly the ideal living quarters for felines. It was a two-hour train ride from where Sorata worked in Tokyo, tiny as a telephone box and slightly dilapidated from the outside. The building even leaned to one side. ("It's called Feng Shui, good for luck," said the Chinese landowner. "No, it's not," replied Sorata, "it's called being a piece of crap.")

Inside wasn't an awful lot better. When it rained, droplets fell through cracks in the ceiling. The central heating seemed to work sporadically, and only when Sorata needed it least. When he went to bed, he woke up with furballs stuck to his face and cats clinging to his arms and legs. He tried to put them under another blanket, but it was always the same story whenever he woke up. The same eyes peering up at him. Family, almost. It was part of Sorata's early morning routine to roll his eyes, groan, tell them off, place a milk bowl in front of them and watch them lick it clean, unable to stop himself reaching out and petting them lightly.

Once, a workmate asked him, "Why don't you just let them go?" and Sorata said, "That'd be like letting go of my humanity." He thought this statement would raise more eyebrows than it did. Then again, he supposed when it came to his work colleagues it was hard to care about much of anything when all you did was procrastinate on work for a living.

Sorata's vocation was slightly different. After getting a full-time job, his life settled into the kind of dreadful monotony that brought on premature mid-life crisis. He sorted paperwork at the office. When he was not stuck sorting his assigned paperwork, he was stuck sorting someone else's paperwork. His nickname was Doormat-kun.

"I am getting sick and tired of this," Sorata would say to his boss, day after day.

"Then I would say you are an ungrateful bastard," said his chain-smoking boss. "Work is the fabric of your very being. Work is the fire in your belly. Work is your _soul_. Without work, the very foundations upon which our civilisation rests would shatter. You would be a sham to society. But more importantly, you would be a sham to _yourself_. Could you really stand to live with that sense of guilt?"

"Don't make it sound like Armageddon!"

"Photocopy these files for me, would you, Doormat-kun? I'm trying to clock Super Mario Brothers before lunch time."

"What are these hypocritical phrases you're spouting?!"

There was, fortunately, one overriding good factor in Sorata's boring office job. It was the fact that it was a boring office job. It reeked of normalcy. The work wasn't even all that hard either. Even copping everyone else's workload, there was always still time for lunch. The hours passed by slowly and monotonously. It was the pinnacle of Sorata's existence.

His sister regularly rang the office phone to talk to him during office hours. Nobody minded. "Imouto characters are welcome at our firm," said the chain-smoking boss.

"She's not an imouto character. She's twenty-eight and she's got a boyfriend."

"Is the boyfriend you?"

"WAIT WHAT. NO. _NO_."

Sorata did not mention that Yuuko's boyfriend was referred to unanimously inside and outside the family as 'Sorata #2'. The physical resemblance could only have been produced by code hacking the universe. He could have been Sorata's long-lost brother. Sorata did not like Sorata #2 and Sorata #2 did not like Sorata.

"Are you taking care of yourself, onii-chan?" Yuuko asked over the phone, during work hours. "Are you ever going to get married?"

Sorata reflected.

He knew without a doubt that he was a highly attractive individual. His charm was impossible to deny. His magnanimous deeds drew others to him inexorably. Unfortunately, this only seemed to apply to cats and weirdos. There was no shortage of either in his life.

His own family was of course the worst. Sorata was terrible at keeping girlfriends but perhaps it was just as well because he never had the slightest inclination to show off his family to them. The biggest problem with meeting women was that they seemed to find everyone around Sorata more interesting than Sorata himself. They would spend dates talking about everyone except themselves. They would never touch. "Is it because I'm boring?" Sorata would ask.

"Yes," said the girlfriend, and then she would leave him. Although Sorata was getting to an age when he should be thinking about getting married, he was no closer to pulling off the deed than he was to climbing Mount Everest.

He explained this situation to Yuuko: "If my life were a dating sim, I'm pretty sure this would be the bad end."

That about summed up the current state of his affairs.

* * *

There was a teacher Sorata used to know back when he was in high school. He no longer remembered her name; high school had been mostly a fuzzy, vague experience for him. But he still remembered the teacher, mostly because Yuuko in her current form reminded him of her.

Yuuko liked to drink a lot. She also wore expensive low-cut dresses she paid for with Sorata's money. Though she had never been remotely 'sexy' (Sorata shuddered to associate such a word with his sister) she was pretty enough. But at twenty-eight, her youth was drawing to a close and with it her good looks. Yuuko voraciously chased after younger men – Sorata #2 was ten years younger than his namesake. At twenty-eight, she was still somehow girlish. But to be honest, Yuuko was most interesting when she was drunk.

Unlike most consumers of alcohol, she became exponentially more intelligent after she drank. Under alcoholic influence, she held a keen appreciation for fine arts and literature. She did weird things, like speak German (Sorata had not even known she had learnt the language). One day, while slightly tipsy, she changed Sorata's life. She asked him to watch a play with her.

"Why don't you go with Sorata #2?" Sorata asked.

"He hates arts. You know what he's like – he's such a bore."

"I feel like you're indirectly insulting me."

"Anyway, I really, _really _need to see the new Jin Mitaka play!"

Sorata blinked. "Did you say Jin Mitaka?"

"Yeah, why?"

"The name sounds familiar…"

"Well," said Yuuko, tossing her hair back, "he _is _an accomplished playwright and novelist. I'd put him on the same level as the likes of Natsume Soseki and Haruki Murakami."

"I think… I think I went to school with him."

Yuuko stared at him. Sorata could almost _feel _his image shifting and rearranging itself in her mind. She would never see him the same way again. Knowledge of a celebrity did that. "Are you serious?" she asked incredulously.

"I _think _so. The name's familiar. I don't think I knew him that well, though."

"That's amazing! My dear, beloved onii-chan, you are a genius beyond words!"

"Is that all it took to win your respect?!"

"Now you simply must come to watch the play, dearest, darling brother of mine!" Yuuko always sounded eloquent when she was drunk. "I bought a backstage pass and a dinner for two with Mitaka-sensei after the play! It will be splendid!"

"… And just who paid for these splendid things?"

"I know your credit card details like the back of my hand, onii-chan! Anyway, it's tonight, so you better get dressed."

Sorata groaned. Now he really had no choice. It was _his _money, after all. This was why he lived in a flat and could not afford a girlfriend.

That evening, as he fastened his tie and peered at his reflection in the mirror, he felt uneasy. No, perhaps that was too strong a word. He was too detached from his own reflection. His eyes, slightly tired yet sombre, gazed back at him. Jin Mitaka. Jin Mitaka…

He tore his gaze away from himself. It was as he was gazing out the window, noticing the bare branches of the sakura tree on the opposite side of the road, that he remembered. Sakurasou. Jin Mitaka had been a dorm member at Sakurasou.

Somehow, the memory of the word caused whatever Sorata was feeling – that sensation that was too oblique to be described as uneasiness – to well up further inside him. There was once a time he had associated strong emotions with Sakurasou. The remnants of those feelings stirred up vaguely inside of him. He wondered why he had felt that way when he had spent less than a year living inside the school dorm for problem children. The youthful mind clung to some very esoteric ideas. Sorata had never felt that old, not until he thought of Jin Mitaka and Sakurasou. Had it really been close to fifteen years?

All of a sudden, he did not want to see Jin Mitaka. Like all the problem children in Sakurasou, barring Sorata, he had captivated the world with his talent. Jin Mitaka lived in another world, and Sakurasou was an alien stronghold situated on a quiet, suburban street in Tokyo. Sakurasou – the physical world, of course – probably no longer existed. Jin Mitaka was probably nothing more than an abstraction in Sorata's mind. He would be that way right up until the very moment Sorata saw his play and breathed in his existence. He did not have to face it. He could still back out.

Sorata stood at the doorway, his hand still on the doorknob. The smoothness underneath his fingers still felt real. The wind blew against his face. "Onii-chan!" his sister called out to him, waving through the open window of her car. With a jerk, Sorata moved towards her. It felt like some cosmic force was pulling him along. The cosmic force that was Yuuko Kanda.

"Sorry," he said. "I was just caught up reminiscing."

"What was Mitaka-sensei like?"

Sorata thought about it. "A player," he said. "He always had dates with older women. For some reason, I remember that."

"Of course you'd remember the scandalous things. Was he smooth talking to women?"

"I suppose." But Sorata had only ever seen Jin interact with that one girl, the one with the large bust. He had never touched that girl. (He would remember her name soon enough.) Anyway, he had never been that close to Jin to see him in action.

"You should have asked him to teach you some moves," said Yuuko.

"Like hell I would!"

"Well, whatever. We're wasting time."

Sorata scratched the back of his head. Yuuko made him drive. Sorata's mind was blank as he drove. It only occurred to him as he was parking that he had no idea what Jin's play was about, or even what it was called.

Yuuko was powdering her nose in the passenger seat. "It's called _Mushoku no Midori-iro_. The Colorless Green."

"That doesn't even make any sense."

"Maybe to you, it wouldn't."

They did not exchange any more words. Yuuko was giddy as they took their seats, like a schoolgirl (most people were, when drunk). Sorata plopped himself down and felt a blankness in his mind that almost shook him. What was he meant to be feeling, watching a play someone he _knew _had written?

Afterwards, Sorata could not say he remembered much of the play itself. The dialogue danced around his ears. He understood their words and he understood the plot. But of the experience of actually watching the play, he could not say much for certain. The lighting distracted him. He could see every made-up detail of the actors' faces. Yuuko was silent, breathless. Sorata sat still and kept his eyes on the stage.

"Wasn't that amazing?" Yuuko said to afterwards. She spoke to him in a hushed, excited whisper. "Mitaka-sensei is really a genius!"

Sorata smiled. He felt vague and like a feather. He supposed he hadn't seen enough plays to know Jin's talent for certain. He had seen the people around him; it was all so upper-class. Snobbish, in a way. How very like Jin.

Yuuko nudged him. "There he is! There he is!"

Sorata looked up.

A tall, bespectacled man was shaking hands with one of the actors. He had a smooth-shaven face. He stood straight and tall and did not smile too hard. Jin Mitaka appeared to have noticed the two of them because after a moment, he broke off the handshake and his gaze slid over to them.

"Hello, Sorata," he said.

Abruptly, Sorata's heart started to beat frantically. He felt the blood rush to his face. "You remember me?"

He had not expected this.

Jin laughed. It was a pensive-sounding laughter, restrained in nature. "I'm a writer. I remember people by trade."

_He remembered_. Sorata suddenly felt small and somewhat ill. Yuuko was looking back and forth between the two of them with an air of effusive delight. "Onii-chan wasn't lying. This is too awe-inspiring!"

Sorata cleared his throat, conscious of how the embarrassment was clogging it. "So, Mitaka-sensei…"

"Call me Jin. The lovely young lady next to you, that's your sister?"

"Uh, yeah…"

"He called me lovely!" Yuuko was jumping like a hyperactive toddler. Sorata wondered why siblings could not get a divorce.

Sighing, he peered at Jin instead. He wondered how much the other man remembered about him.

But Jin was no longer looking at him. He was smiling at Yuuko. Sorata glanced away, feeling more insignificant by the second. Jin really was just as smooth as he ought to have remembered.

* * *

At dinner, Yuuko did most of the talking. Sorata sat next to her with his hands pressed against his knees and his eyes on the cutlery. The food had not yet come. This was one of those fancy high-end restaurants, he was certain. _Damn it, how much did Yuuko spend on this night?_

"I love your writing, Jin-san!" Yuuko babbled. "It's so refined but so raw! Wonderful!" She downed another glass of champagne.

"I'm glad you like it."

_Damn it,_ thought Sorata again. Jin really was good at those genial smiles. Sorata felt distinctly uncomfortable at the idea of Jin flirting with his sister. It was like mixing two dangerous elements of his life that should not be mixed. They did not belong in the same world.

"_Mushoku no Midori-iro_," Yuuko went on, "kind of reminded me of a Haruki Murakami novel. That's a compliment, of course!"

Jin laughed. "One of his novels? I wouldn't agree with that."

"Why?"

"I dislike the use of surrealism as a thematic device," Jin explained. "_Kafka on the Shore_, _The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle_, _IQ84_… These are all good novels but I felt a greater resonance in his earlier, more down-to-earth short stories."

"I know what you mean! I loved _Super Frog Saves Tokyo_!"

Sorata gagged. How was a story with a title like _Super Frog Saves Tokyo _meant to be realistic? It sounded more like something _she _would come up with.

It was then Sorata remembered a name. The name was Misaki-senpai. He remembered Misaki-senpai squeezing him in a tight hug and unconsciously pressing her breasts against his back. He remembered how awkward this had felt for him back when he had lived at Sakurasou with her, when he was an adolescent, blushing schoolboy.

"How's Misaki-senpai?" he blurted out suddenly.

Jin blinked. "Who's Misaki-senpai?" asked Yuuko.

"An old friend of ours," said Jin. He was still smiling. There was something hard and jagged and almost ruthless in his eyes. _Why did you ask that?_

Sorata's mouth felt dry. He was suddenly conscious of stepping on a landmine. He tried to backpedal. "It's been a while so I know it's not like-"

"No, it's fine. To be honest, I haven't spoken to her in years."

…_oh._

Yuuko looked at Sorata and then she looked at Jin. She blinked the confusion out of her eyes.

After that strange moment, the conversation between Yuuko and Jin proceeded without hitch. They talked about the finer details of the play. Sorata did not comprehend the talk. Then, when the food came, they ate. It felt heavy and rich inside Sorata's mouth. In spite of himself, his mind relaxed.

Halfway through the meal, Yuuko announced she was going to the toilet. Suddenly, it was just Sorata and Jin.

"Sorata."

Sorata blinked, startled.

"You haven't changed, Sorata."

"Neither have you, Jin-san."

He smiled. "Perhaps not."

_Are you still seeing married women?_

Silently, Sorata swallowed a mouthful of veal.

"If you're curious about Misaki, she's still in the animation business. I know that much."

"Oh, I see." Sorata swallowed another mouthful. "That's… good, I guess."

_I thought you were childhood friends._

Jin leaned back, dabbing his mouth with a napkin.

"Misaki and I, we never agreed on what art is."

"Art?"

"You remember what she was like. She was so energetic. Everything she drew was just so fantastical. She enjoyed every second of it."

Sorata looked down at his food. His plate was half-empty. "That's why she was so good at it."

"My scripts never excited her. For years and years, I kept trying to write for her, and it never satisfied her. I realised art for me meant suffering. I could only bring myself to write what was truth. I could only strive vainly for perfection. Our styles were fundamentally incompatible."

Sorata frowned. Art was suffering? It all went over his head. "Yuuko likes your writing," he said.

But as soon as he uttered that, he knew for Jin it wasn't enough. Perhaps it wasn't enough that everyone in the world should love his writing, because there was an alien out there who didn't.

"But that's enough nostalgia," said Jin. "How are things with you?"

They never mentioned Misaki for the rest of the night.

* * *

"Wasn't he so great? So charming?" Yuuko was still babbling incoherently as Sorata drove her home.

It seemed Jin had made a very strong impression on Yuuko. "Aren't you being unfaithful to Sorata #2?"

"It's not infidelity if your partner doesn't know about it."

"Then what would it be called?!"

Yuuko laughed. "But you know, in all seriousness, he's different from what I imagined."

"Huh? What do you mean?"

"You'd understand if you read his books."

"What about his books?"

Yuuko did not answer. She had fallen asleep. Her soft snoring filled the car.

Unexpectedly, Sorata found that he did not mind their conversation being cut off so abruptly. It left him free to think.

How was he expecting Jin to be? He hadn't known. Was his outlook any different now, after seeing him? Sorata did not know the answer to that either. All he knew was that the experience had been slightly discomforting for him somehow. He couldn't put his finger on it. Maybe he was overthinking it all.

A sense of tiredness washed over him. Should he ring up work and pretend to be sick tomorrow? No, he couldn't do that. The boss would tell him off. All of a sudden, Sorata's world felt small, as if meeting Jin again had shrunk his perspective rather than broadened it. Was that what art did to a person? Or was it just Jin?

The questions were too difficult for Sorata to ponder while driving and drunk on tiredness. He put aside the questions but the weight remained in his mind.

Just as he expected, he woke up the next morning groggy and with a vaguely throbbing headache. That evening with Jin felt like it had occurred in another lifetime; it was another memory to be locked away and compartmentalised with the non-existent Sakurasou. Sorata dressed and fed his cats and had breakfast. Then he got on the train and slept while standing up.

The work was mundane. He sorted the paperwork while his colleagues drank coffee and kicked off their shoes. Some part of Sorata thought that his world would look somehow different in the morning, but everything was precisely the same. This was how his life was.

"Geez, get a grip, you people!" he said exasperatedly. This felt like uttering stock lines in a play; he had said these words so often. "Don't just sit around doing nothing!"

"Now, now, you shouldn't act like you have such a stick up your arse. It's not good for your digestion."

"Like you know what's good for my digestion!"

"Silence, Doormat-kun," said the chain-smoking boss as he walked into the cubicle. "No one wants to put up with your histrionics this early in the morning. Don't you know the rules in this place? Coffee break until twelve, and then it's time for lunch."

Sorata groaned. "Am I just a hobo who wears a tie?"

"Well, do your best to cover for us," said the boss. "I've got another pile for you to sort when you're done. Now hush. I'm trying to read." He fingered his book.

It was _Mushoku no Midori-iro._

At that moment, it was like something clicked in Sorata's mind. He sat up to attention. "Jin Mitaka?"

"You know him? I'm impressed. I didn't think you'd be the type to go for deep literature."

"Can I read that?" Sorata asked the question before he knew what he was saying. It was only after he spoke that he realised that he was in fact curious to understand what Yuuko meant about Jin.

"Well, sure," said his boss, and he placed the book next to Sorata's pile of paperwork. There was room on the desk because Sorata kept it neat. "I was only rereading it. Give it back when you're done."

Sorata picked up the book and flipped its pages idly.

It was a novel. The play from last night, it seemed, had been adapted from the book. The cover of the novel was neither colorless nor green; actually, it was faint blue. The book was fairly thick but not unreasonable in size. Sorata was conscious of this nondescript paperback book taunting him somehow. It was more than he would ever be.

Sorata pushed the book away into the corner of his desk. He decided he would read it later.

* * *

He stopped at the convenience store on the way home to buy cat food. As he was waiting in line to get served, he picked up a newspaper on sheer impulse and checked the arts and entertainment section. There was a small mention of _Mushoku no Midori-iro _showings but it was completely overshadowed by a full page spread ("MASHIRO SHIINA TO HOLD FIRST ART EXHIBITION IN TOKYO") that frankly didn't interest Sorata. He put down the paper and paid for the cat food.

When he got home, he found an unfamiliar car parked outside his house and a man standing outside his door. The man himself was actually rather scarily familiar. It was Sorata #2. Strangely enough, Yuuko was nowhere in sight; Sorata had never seen Sorata #2 without her.

"Um," said Sorata, "what are you doing here?"

Sorata #2 was leaning with his back against the door. He appeared to have been snoozing with his arms folded. He opened his eyes, rubbed them, and stared at Sorata. He was dressed in a t-shirt and shorts. His resemblance to a schoolboy on vacation was physically striking.

"Hi," he said.

Sorata shuffled uncomfortably. Why in the _hell _did his sister choose to date someone who looked _exactly _like him?

"Would you mind moving out of the way?" he asked. "I need to feed my cats."

Sorata #2 looked at him sourly. He shoved his hands in his pockets and shuffled out of the way. "I-It's not like I was waiting for you or anything, idiot!"

Sorata was floored. It was like looking into a mirror that spoke and interacted with him. Did he really sound like a tsundere when he talked?

"Well, it's not like I like you, either." Huffing, he opened his door. Sorata #2 quickly walked inside. "Get out!"

"I wanted to talk to you about something."

Sorata squinted at Sorata #2. Characteristically enough, Sorata #2 was not looking at him directly. Rather, he seemed incredibly fascinated by the floorboards.

"Listen," said Sorata. He searched vainly in his mind for Sorata #2's real name and completely drew a blank. "Listen, uh…"

One of his cats crawled up to Sorata #2 and licked his hand. "It's about your sister," said Sorata #2.

Sorata was prepared for this. "Look, what happened last night wasn't anything serious." He highly doubted that Jin, lady killer though he was, would actually go after _Yuuko_, of all people. "It was just a bit of harmless fun, I swear!"

"She told me she was out on a date with you."

"Er."

"Anyway, that wasn't what I wanted to talk about. I've been thinking maybe I should break up with her."

"Why are you telling _me _this?!"

Sorata #2 blushed. His cheeks were bright red. "Well, you are her _brother_," he mumbled.

Sorata sighed and sat down cross-legged with his hands on his knees, peering straight at Yuuko's boyfriend. This was all making less sense by the second. "Why do you want to break up with her? To be honest, I don't really care what you do either way."

"I'm thinking of going to Vienna," said Sorata #2.

"Wh-What?" spluttered Sorata.

"I want to become a professional violinist. I've been offered a scholarship in Vienna. But of course that means I have to be apart from Yuuko. Should I keep a long-distance relationship or just break things off clean now?"

Sorata did not say anything.

"Well?" Sorata #2 pressed him.

"You're a musician," said Sorata, numbly. "I didn't know you were a musician."

"I play the cello, the flute and the oboe too."

"And you want to be a professional."

"I certainly hope so."

Sorata felt a migraine coming on. So Sorata #2 was actually nothing like him after all. "Okay," was all he said.

"You didn't answer my question," said Sorata #2.

"I don't even know why you're asking _me_ about all that," Sorata answered tartly, feeling inexplicably irritated. "Why don't you talk to Yuuko about it?"

"I did." Sorata #2 looked puzzled. "She told me to ask you about it. Maybe she thought you'd know what to do."

"Do I look like Gandalf to you?!"

"No, you look like me."

"Aren't you creeped out?" Sorata asked him. "Just a little bit?"

Sorata #2 thought about it. "I suppose so," he said. "But I love Yuuko."

"Then don't break up with her."

"Should I go to Vienna?"

"I don't know! It's your dream, isn't it?"

Sorata #2 shook his head. It was clearly not the answer he was looking for. "What would you do if you were me?" he asked.

"What would I-?"

"Tell me." His eyes were on Sorata.

Suddenly, it felt as if the entire conversation had turned itself right around. Sorata was the subject of inquisition now. It was a strange, bottomless experience; he was nothing special.

"I don't know," Sorata admitted. Then he said, "I'm not you."

Sorata #2 closed his eyes. "Yeah, I know. I'm glad."

"What's that supposed to mean?!"

The younger man opened his eyes again. "We can only be ourselves, right? That's all I meant."

He stood up, thanking Sorata and saying it was all he wanted to hear. Sorata watched him sourly as he left, wondering just what the point of the whole exercise was. It was clear Yuuko had put him up to it. He'd probably figured out what he wanted to do independently, like any normal person would.

It only occurred to Sorata after he was gone that Sorata #2 did indeed have a name – it was Tadashi. Not that it mattered anymore seeing as he was out of sight and would soon enough be out of mind. Sorata would make certain of that.

That evening, in spite of himself, a certain thought struck him as he poured a bowl of milk for the cats and watched serenely as they drank from it.

He never could bring himself to be as kind to humans as he was to cats, could he?

* * *

That night, he started reading Jin's novel.

He hadn't really been planning to do such a thing. But that colorless, green book was lying on his bench and he found himself thinking as the night drew on that a bit of light reading would be good for him. He decided to read a chapter or two before heading to bed.

On retrospect, he would find himself wondering if it had all affected him a bit more than it should have, if he should have known what would happen next. To think Yuuko's decisions would have any bearing on him at all. But thinking about it further, he knew he could not have prepared himself for it at all. In reading Jin's book, he had inextricably tied himself to his art out of pure volition. Whatever came next was just a natural case of cause and effect.

_Mushoku no Midori-iro _was a story about a widowed man and his vain attempt at preventing his teenaged daughter from growing up and facing the horrors of the world. Their relationship was sweet and nuanced, yet ultimately tragic. The widower became desperate and senile as more of his daughter's innocence was lost. He tore his daughter down whenever she sought to rise.

Sorata finished all 357 pages of the book in one night. The words on the page seemed to open up and swallow him deep. Jin's prose, cool and clinical, cut deep like a scalpel. There was too much ruthless honesty in it – it was as if by describing the widower, Jin was placing Sorata under a microscope too. The words made Sorata squirm; they twisted his entire being. He was helpless to defend himself against their inconceivable power and could only surrender under the torrent of their flow.

The novel described various sexual acts between the widower and several unnamed women. It was here the prose became particularly vicious and cutting. Palpable despair was etched throughout every beautifully wrought phrase. In Jin's novel, there was no love. It was in reading these scenes that Sorata felt most keenly alone.

It was all in the words again. They clawed at him. He read quickly, and yet still the words seared into his mind. He felt himself tremble, as if under the weight of giants. He was not conscious of anything but the book in his hands and the drama that played out in a world beyond his own sight.

At the end of the novel, when the widower was left utterly alone and destitute, betrayed by his daughter, Sorata felt hollow. When he put down the book, it was already morning. Sorata was not tired at all. In fact, he could not have felt more awake, for he had been startled into alertness. He put down the book, closed his eyes and frowned, trying to sort out his thoughts.

It was then he decided that he could not bring himself to love Jin's writing. The undeniable truth was that he hated it.


	2. I - Twenty Thousand Leagues

**02 – Twenty Thousand Leagues**

Jin's book, however, did not change Sorata's world. Everything was merely internalised. The days, unrestrained by Sorata's perception, continued to trickle slowly by. No matter what thoughts Sorata was pondering, nobody around him seemed to notice.

Work, of course, was more or less the same. Actually, Sorata found himself working somewhat harder than usual. The department head had apparently found their productivity lacking. The boss prowled around Sorata's cubicle, wearing a mopey expression on his face. Whenever he seemed to think Sorata was slacking, he made puppy dog noises. Sorata worked harder just to shut him up, and after a few days the boss was mercifully off his back.

During this period, no one rang at the office. It was only a whole week after, when the office phone finally rang again at lunch time, that Sorata realised he had not heard from his sister at all.

He picked up the phone and put it to his ear.

"SON OF MINE," a man roared. "WHAT IS THIS TRAVESTY?"

Sorata's left eye twitched. He recognised the voice – it was his father.

Sorata's father was a more theatrical man than any fictional character Shakespeare could have invented. Sorata had spent much of his formative years groaning and shrinking from this great man's presence. He was by now thoroughly fed up with it.

"What is it now, dad?"

"WHY ARE YOU GOING TO VIENNA?"

Sorata's father seemed to have no way to control the volume of his voice. "I'm not going to Vienna," Sorata said through clenched teeth. "You probably mistook me for Yuuko's boyfriend again."

"I'LL NEVER LET YOU HAVE MY DAUGHTER, YOU FOUL DENIZEN OF THE UNDERWORLD-"

Sorata hung up the phone.

It rang again a minute later.

"-I WILL SMITE YOU WITH MY MEGATON HAMMER."

"WHAT ARE YOU, FIVE?!"

Sorata's father seemed to calm down somewhat after that. "Son," he said gravely. "Why don't you be more like Sorata #2?"

"Didn't you want to do destructive things to his genitals just before?!"

"That was then. This is now."

"It was thirty seconds ago!"

"He is a truly talented young man. I am proud to produce such offspring."

"Except he's not related to you in any way."

"Quiet, son, you must not talk back to me. Indeed, there is one thing I must ask you. It is my dying request - ("You're nowhere near dead!") - please convince Yuuko out of going with him."

"Huh?" said Sorata, comprehending but at the same time not quite.

"She wants to go to Vienna with him. It's foolish. But she won't listen to me. Infuriating."

It surprised Sorata more than it should have. Perhaps Yuuko was more serious about her boyfriend than Sorata had imagined. Or maybe it was all down to her characteristic stubbornness. It was hard to talk her out of anything.

"Bring her back, son!" his father screeched plaintively.

Sorata was starting to get uncomfortable. His workmates were staring at him; it was possible to hear his father across the other side of room. "I'll give her a ring after work," he said quickly.

"Impossible," said his father. "Her flight is today."

"…_What?!_"

* * *

Sorata had never understood his sister. As far as he was concerned, she was just a strange and very easily excited creature. They had been fairly close (which siblings weren't?) right up until she started high school. Then Yuuko had changed, and very quickly at that. She started to be interested in boys and makeup – Sorata figured that puberty had finally hit her. He was not overly concerned with her, to be perfectly honest. Maybe that just encouraged her to change even further.

At that time, he had been living in Tokyo for almost three years and only ever saw his family on public holidays and vacation. In his second year, he had managed to escape from Sakurasou and that was that; his life goal had been achieved. Looking back, Sorata could almost identify that as a kind of turning point. After getting back to the regular dorms, he found himself severely lacking in worldly ambitions. Of course he could not spare a thought for Yuuko.

Sorata did, of course, go to university. His high school was focused on the liberal arts and most students went on to do arts degrees in university. Sorata was no different. He spent three years on campus, bumming around and trying different courses – but none of the subjects struck him as anything he wanted to do for the rest of his life. He did not get involved in student politics either. In the end, feeling what a colossal waste of time and his parent's money this was, he dropped out and looked for a job. He had long since given up dreaming of dreams.

As for Yuuko, he suspected she went along with the flow too. For a start, she failed the entrance exam for his high school. Maybe that was where it started. After that, she attended a local high school and did not go to university. She then essentially became a full-time part-timer. About two years ago, she went to Tokyo, asking Sorata to help her find a full-time job. His firm wasn't accepting any other employees and he had no other connections. So Yuuko became a full-time part-timer in the city too. Her only talent, it seemed, was in meeting and dating Sorata #2. If he was gone, she really would have nothing to keep her in Tokyo.

_But geez_, thought Sorata exasperatedly. Yuuko wasn't young anymore. How could she think of supporting herself in a foreign country when she couldn't even make a living in Tokyo? It was all so random, so sudden. She hadn't even mentioned Vienna to him once in person. Had she been trying to send him a subtle message with Sorata #2? Was that really the conclusion she had come to?

The more Sorata thought about it, the more he did not like it. He told the boss he was sick and took the rest of the day off work. Then he got on the first train that would take him towards Narita airport. Yuuko was not thinking properly, he decided. Yes, she wasn't young anymore, but she had never been able to take care of herself. He had always found himself paying for her outings. There was no way Sorata #2, a young man, could support the both of them.

Yuuko was not answering her phone. Damn it, this wasn't some kind of crazy elopement, was it? Sorata thought of all the things he would say to his sister when he saw her. _What you need at your age is stability, Yuuko. Just stay home. Let it all pass. You're just being carried away by your emotions._

The train stopped and Sorata got out. He got on the shuttle bus next. What time was the flight? His father hadn't told him because he hadn't known the exact himself. The wheels of the bus jerked into motion and inch by inch, Sorata felt the confrontation with his sister draw closer.

The more time Sorata had to think, the more he got annoyed with Yuuko. How could she do all this without telling him? Was Sorata #2 really that much superior to him? Even his own father had thought so. Sorata tried not to brood, but he couldn't help it. His cats wouldn't listen to him if he spoke about it and there was really no one else to talk to, anyway. Yuuko really shouldn't be going like this.

The airport was busy. Sorata craned his neck looking for the flight schedule. Where would his sister be? Had the plane already departed? There were too many people around. Breathing heavily, Sorata wiped beads of sweat off his forehead. He was startled by how much of an effect this was all having on him. He closed his eyes and inhaled slowly.

Then he asked at the information desk about the flight schedules. The lady at the desk pointed him towards a screen. The next flight to Vienna was in twenty minutes. Where was it leaving from? The lady told him. "Thank you," said Sorata, feeling his stomach unclench.

But his stomach only tightened again as he waited for Yuuko. He sat down on a seat near the cargo area, ears pricked, totally alert. His eyes flickered and scanned the groups of people carefully. It was easiest to look for a reflection of himself.

Continually, he glanced at the clock. The minutes ticked by. The time of departure came and went. Sorata clenched his fists against his knees. He decided he would not leave until the last scheduled flight had flown – he would not abandon his sister or his duty.

Minutes passed, swallowed into the agonising depths of inactivity. Sorata sat very still. He continued to be vigilant and to look. He did not close his eyes or try to rest them at all. Inwardly, his stomach never stopped churning, not for a moment. What if she was already gone? What if-? He felt mildly ill. Yet still he remained.

The sun was beginning to set when he spotted her, dragging a suitcase alongside Sorata #2. Immediately, Sorata stormed over to her. "You stupid idiot!" he cried, grabbing her by the shoulders.

(He had waited for four hours in total.)

"Onii-chan?!"

His hand moved to her wrist. "You're coming home with me," he said resolutely.

She snapped her hand away. "Stop it! I don't-!"

"Hey," said Sorata #2's voice behind him. "You better let go."

Sorata grimaced. Passers-by stared at them. "Is it a love triangle?" he heard a schoolgirl whisper loudly to her friend.

"Look," said Sorata gruffly, "you can't just take Yuuko away. She never even consulted with her family and it's just-"

"I'm an adult, onii-chan," Yuuko interrupted him. "You shouldn't be so dramatic. I've saved up for this trip. I didn't ask you for any money this time, did I?"

That was true, but that was really not what Sorata was concerned with.

"How long are you planning to stay?" he demanded.

"As long as I need to," Yuuko answered priggishly. "I haven't worked it out yet."

"Yuuko, we have to be on board the plane in fifteen minutes," said Sorata #2.

Sorata knew, of course, that he would not be able to physically stop Yuuko if it all came down to it. Sorata #2 was in better shape than he was; he was perfectly capable of pushing Sorata away. Besides, Sorata did not want to cause a scene.

"You'll regret this," he said, lowering his voice. "Yuuko, our father is _worried_."

Yuuko's boyfriend started putting the luggage on the conveyor belt. Yuuko said, "And why did _you _come?"

"Because I'm your _brother_."

Unexpectedly, Yuuko broke out into a wistful smile. "Thank you for saying that, even though I know it's not the real reason."

"What? But it _is _true. Yuuko, you've got to-"

But Yuuko shook her head. Then, with unusual, almost uncharacteristic calmness, she started to talk.

She was starting a new leaf in her life, she explained. She had already told their mother and she approved. She was still in her twenties – she wanted to make something of her life before it was too late.

"You and our father worry too much, onii-chan. That's what you have in common. You worry so much you never step out of your comfort zone because you're afraid of failure. You didn't stop me because you wanted to protect me. You stopped me because you feel inferior to Tadashi."

Sorata was stunned. It was clear Yuuko had been thinking through this speech for quite some time.

"I tried to take you out and expand your world a bit," Yuuko continued. "Remember the Jin Mitaka pay? All the bars I took you to? I used to adore you, onii-chan. I still do, in a way. I thought you were special for getting into a school like Suimei High. You _could _have been special. I'm not special, I'm not, but at least I want to get out there. And Tadashi, he's the same. He's always telling me he thinks he has no talent at music. That's why I want to go with him so I can support him."

"But Yuuko-"

"Even if it doesn't work out and I have to come back, at least it's a mistake I made on my own terms. I won't regret it, onii-chan. Please, just trust me."

It hit Sorata then that throughout all these years, he had understood his sister even less than he thought. She was either utterly stupid or utterly brave. Maybe that explained her attraction to younger men. In her own clumsy way, she was trying to really live.

By this time, Sorata #2 – no, Tadashi – had returned. He was peering at Sorata silently but also hesitantly, almost apprehensively. The uncertainty came through his eyes. He really was just so young.

Yuuko was looking at Sorata too. She had said her piece. Her gaze was defiant but also pleading. Sorata felt as if the walls inside him were crumbling, for her words had shredded him relentlessly.

Finally, he spoke.

"In the end, I guess you regret the things you didn't do, not the things that you did."

Briefly, the walls of Sakurasou were occupied once again – but only within the boundaries of his mind. He wondered what he would have done, if he had known. "I'll tell dad I missed you at the airport."

As he spoke, his heart felt sick with misery and the weight of regret for a life he had not lived. Yuuko's eyes lit up and she threw her arms around him fervently.

"Thank you, onii-chan! I love you, I love you!"

"Aargh! Geroff me!"

As he flailed, Sorata found his eyes meeting with Tadashi's. Tadashi was grinning boyishly and giving him the thumbs up. In spite of himself, Sorata smiled back at him. "Seriously, get off, it's embarrassing," he said to Yuuko as he continued to smile at Tadashi. But really, he thought, he would miss Yuuko. In the end, it really was so sudden. He hadn't known how to prepare for this.

Seeing Tadashi, though, he thought he could understand. This was how young people were. They could adapt so quickly, as if the whole world was spread out like a panorama for them and they didn't even notice it. It was clear to Sorata now that it wasn't really Tadashi's looks that Yuuko was attracted to. He could now rest easy knowing it was a happy coincidence. Hopefully.

Finally, Yuuko let go and Sorata found he was able to breathe.

"I'll ring you every day, onii-chan!"

"No, don't do that. International calls cost a lot. Just send me an email once in a while."

Yuuko laughed. "You'll never stop being a wet blanket, will you? I'll be thinking of you, onii-chan."

Sorata closed his eyes, feeling a wave of tranquillity come over him. It was time to say goodbye.

"Yeah," was all he said.

She smiled, and to Sorata, she looked younger than she had ever been. She looked like everything a woman could ever want to be.

"Goobye. I'll see you again someday. Take care of yourself. Goodbye!"

"Bye, Yuuko."

They smiled at each other. The farewell was complete.

"Oh, look," said Tadashi suddenly. "Plane just got delayed for an hour."

* * *

"Do you have an ace?"

"Go fish."

"Do you have a queen?" Tadashi asked, turning to Sorata.

Sorata did. He passed his card to Tadashi, who paired it with the only card he had in his hand. He put down the two cards on the table triumphantly and basked in his inward glory.

"Ugh," said Sorata. "Why are we doing this?"

"Well, the plane got delayed," Yuuko replied briskly. "Now we have to wait."

"I'm really good at strip poker," said Tadashi.

Sorata held his head in his hands and groaned. So much for their emotional farewell. Everything was just ruined.

But the hour passed quickly. Tadashi turned out to be a very friendly and easy person to talk to. Sorata had never noticed this before, but Tadashi was actually quite charming.

He talked about his music. He'd been playing the violin since he was in elementary school and it had been dream since he was young to pursue it professionally. Actually, he confided blushingly, it was his dream to play in the London Symphony Orchestra and to one day become a composer.

"That's not a stupid dream, Tadashi! Nothing to look so embarrassed about!" Yuuko insisted. "You know what? I've decided to do music too. I'll sing and I'll become the greatest idol there ever was!"

Sorata and Tadashi exchanged cringed glances. "What?" Yuuko demanded airily.

"You're tone deaf," said Tadashi. "When you sing, you sound like a dying cat."

This was precisely what Sorata would have said.

"Hmph," snorted Yuuko, looking unimpressed. "You say that, but I have not yet unleashed my vast, unending talent upon this world."

"Please don't. I'll give you ten yen."

"So stingy!"

"I'm a musician," said Tadashi in defence.

Sorata laughed. When he glanced at the clock, he found to his surprise that it was time for Tadashi and Yuuko to leave again. Maybe it was because all the heavy words had been spoken and dealt with earlier, but this time, his heart felt light. There was really nothing more that needed to be said.

He waved goodbye. It was like any ordinary farewell. Of course he would hear from Yuuko soon enough, he thought. It wasn't like she was gone forever. Perhaps it was simply better this way – for both of them. Inside his heart, Sorata deeply wished for Tadashi's success.

After the two of them were gone, it felt as if the atmosphere in the airport became sterile and lacking in any personality. In a way, he missed his sister already. It was already dark outside, but the lobby was as crowded as ever with travellers. He was alone within a sea of people.

It occurred to Sorata that he had never actually been overseas – and it was Yuuko's first time too. So it was like an adventure. Personally, it all felt like a lot of bother, booking tickets and going through customs and long, stuffy plane rides – yet a part of him felt wistful too. A part of him that was getting steadily more difficult to ignore.

He could start saving properly now, he thought. In a few years, he could be going on holiday somewhere. Somewhere nice. It didn't feel like quite enough to Sorata, but the thought appeased him. It would be nice to get away from his lousy job, at least.

Yet for the moment, he would have to concentrate on what was tangible and in front of him. As he went down the escalator, he noticed there was something on the step between him and the woman in front of him. Sorata leaned down and picked it up. It was a purse, though rather an empty one, judging from its feathery light weight.

"Excuse me, ma'am," he said to the lady in front of him. She had white hair and wore a shawl and a long dress that concealed her entire figure. "You forgot your purse," Sorata said to her.

He waited for the woman to turn around for him. She didn't. It seemed she hadn't heard him – probably a forgetful old lady, Sorata thought. He decided to tap her shoulder next. "Excuse me," he said again, more loudly this time.

She turned around – and Sorata instantly felt his face redden. She was actually nowhere near as old as he had thought.

Actually, it was difficult to try and place a number on her age. There was something of a nymph-like, ageless quality about her face. The white hair was evidently something she had been born with. Her cool, calm, catlike eyes regarded Sorata unblinkingly.

"Y-You dropped this," said Sorata, unable to conceal his flustered state. He held up the purse for her.

She stared at it. Then she took it from him and stared at it some more.

"It isn't yours?" Sorata asked, feeling dismayed.

"It's mine."

She stepped off the escalator and stood very still. Her head turned left and then right in sharp motions. "Er, are you lost?" Sorata asked. There was something about her that reminded him of the abandoned cats he encountered on the street.

"Where is Rita?" asked the white-haired woman.

"Who is Rita?"

"Rita is blonde."

"Way to be descriptive," said Sorata. Then he said, "Why don't you ring her? You've got a phone, don't you?"

The woman stared into her handbag for a long moment.

Sorata waited patiently. The silence stretched out.

"Why don't you, um, give that to me?" Sorata suggested.

With a wordless nod, she handed him the bag.

Sorata was not at all comfortable with looking through a woman's bag but there was something so absurdly sexless about it and its contents. Just a passport, a few crumpled notebooks and, at the very bottom, a grey cellphone. He took it out and promptly discovered the batteries were dead.

"I'll ring this Rita person for you," he offered quickly. "Do you know her number?"

She shook her head. No, she did not.

Sorata sighed, having expected as much. "I'll help you look for her," he said. There was just no way he could leave her alone like this.

The woman was still looking at him. She was so vague and dreamlike, it was like looking at a work of abstract art. Slowly, she shook her head. "Are you sure?" Sorata asked concernedly.

"I want to draw," was all she said in reply.

"Oh."

"Give back my bag."

With a faint air of confusion, Sorata handed the bag back to her and watched her. She took out one of the notebooks and smoothed it out against her lap. Then she took out a pencil and stared at Sorata.

"I want to draw you."

If it was any other person he knew, Sorata would have refused immediately. But he had no heart to retort to this woman. She was just _too _strange. If she was in no rush to meet her friend, then he probably shouldn't push her.

"Do you want me to sit?" he asked.

She considered for a moment. "Yes," she said.

He sat down and watched as she started diligently to sketch.

All Sorata could think was: _this has been one hell of a strange day_. First, his sister had left the country randomly and now he was modelling for a woman he had never met – while sitting in an airport lounge and surrounded by coffee drinkers.

"So, you're an artist?" he said, trying to make conversation.

"Please sit still," she said. The pencil was moving quickly. Sorata got his answer through that. There was no way she could be an amateur with her composure.

It turned out that within minutes, she was done. Just when Sorata was thinking she was wasting her time and was probably lost, she lifted the pencil from the page and showed him the drawing silently.

She really was a professional. "Wow, it's so life-like!" He looked at the portrait more closely. Was it just him or did he look kind of lonely in the picture? Maybe it was the way his lips were turned. He looked up at the artist, wondering how she saw him.

"I want to know you better," she said.

"Wait, is that a pickup line?!"

"You're interesting," she said, and fell silent.

No one had ever said that to Sorata before. Even his family said he was a thoroughly dull person. Sorata wanted to refute the woman, but again he could not find the heart to do so.

"I think we should look for your friend now," he said shyly, not sure what to say to her. Actually, he found her interesting too. Very, very interesting. He wanted to know her better too-

"Mashiroooooooooooo!"

Sorata blinked and turned around, startled. A blonde-haired woman was jogging lightly towards them. Evidently, it was Rita. She looked to be about his age, he figured. Perhaps older. Foreign women always seemed to look older than they actually were.

"Um, hello-" Sorata began.

Rita strode right past him and proceeded to tackle hug the white-haired woman, presumably Mashiro.

Mashiro. The name suited her, Sorata thought.

"I was looking all over for you!" Rita exclaimed. "You had me so worried, Mashiro darling!" She draw from Mashiro and glared at Sorata.

"W-What?" asked Sorata.

"I told you not to talk to any strangers," Rita said, addressing Mashiro crossly.

"I like him," Mashiro said simply.

"Oh, for the love of-" Rita stopped. She noticed the sketch in Mashiro's dainty hands. "You drew that?"

Mashiro nodded. Rita turned quickly to Sorata. Sorata gulped, feeling as if he was being examined in his every minute detail.

"Ohohohohoho! What a kind, handsome man he is!" Rita concluded.

"Firstly, what's with the change of attitude?!" Sorata demanded.

"Actually, to be honest, Mashiro dear, I don't admire your taste. He's so… droopy."

"I can hear you, you know!"

"Ohohohohoho! Did you get his name?"

"No," said Mashiro.

"I'm Sorata Kanda," said Sorata helpfully.

"Look at him," said Rita. "He's so skinny."

"Well, excuse me for being born Japanese!"

"But I guess there's something cute about him, I suppose."

"Don't call a 30-year-old man cute!"

"What's your phone number?" asked Rita, talking directly to Sorata for the first time.

Interest gleamed in her eyes. Sorata only realised then how keenly aware of him she was. Not as a man but as a subject of study.

"Why do you want to know?" he asked suspiciously. In his entire life, an attractive blonde woman had never asked him for his phone number. As far as he was concerned, it was yet another oddity to add to the itinerary of his crazy day. Sorata was deeply conscious of how Mashiro was staring at him.

"I thought I should thank you for helping out Mashiro," Rita explained. "She's a dear friend of mine. The two of us really have some business to attend to right now. We have to get settled in at our hotel and everything and it's late. But I thought I could ring you later and thank you properly."

Rita acted like Mashiro's mother, Sorata thought. "Well, all right," he said. When she put it that way, it made sense.

Rita peered at the number he wrote down for her. She smiled at him, very charmingly. "Thank you very much. And now we must be off, tata!"

"Goodbye," said Mashiro haltingly.

The two women walked off. For a moment, Sorata stared after them before slowly turning away, a lingering sense of curiosity in his mouth.

* * *

On retrospect, that day at the airport was different from that night he had met Jin again. Too much had happened for the consequences to not flow into the next day. But really, if Sorata had to be precise, it was Jin and his novel that had thrown the gears into motion. Or maybe it was all earlier than that, back in the days of Sakurasou. Sorata could not be certain.

In any case, Sorata had his father to deal with first. He remembered his promise to Yuuko. "I didn't see her," he lied, as convincingly as he could. "I think she was already gone by the time I arrived."

"MY DAUGHTER. MY PRECIOUS PRINCESS. MY LIFE IS OVER."

"Dad, I'm sure this was what she wanted to do."

"SON, I AM DISAPPOINT."

"Don't talk like an Internet meme! It's creepy!"

After ranting on about Yuuko's non-existent chastity for half an hour, Sorata's father fell asleep while still on the phone. Sorata could practically smell the alcohol on his breath across the telephone line. Gee, he wondered where Yuuko got her drinking habits from.

His mother, of course, was more accepting. Yuuko had said she had known all along. "Dad would've listened to you," Sorata grumbled, but his mother only laughed quaintly like she always did. Listening to her, Sorata wondered if he really had been worrying over nothing. Yuuko was right. He did worry too much.

But even knowing that did not change anything. Sorata knew from a lifetime of experience that people just didn't work like that. So it was that Sorata found himself working again and with no particular purpose or meaning. His thoughts once again only bubbled beneath the surface. Underneath it all, he felt the passage of time keenly, as if the knowledge of it clawed inside of him. It was a sense of panic, only very vague. The awareness of it was perhaps more frightening than anything Sorata had ever known. Time was running out. But what it was counting down to he had very little idea.

One evening after he had finished feeding his cats, he picked up the tabby cat called Asahi (he had named him after the television station) and stroked him as he turned on the television with his remote. Asahi was his television-watching pal. Usually, they watched variety shows together, though Sorata stayed away from the comedy duo acts. They reminded him too much of real life.

That day, Sorata found himself flicking absent-mindedly through the channels when suddenlt there was a loud BOOM! Sorata blinked, startled. Asahi leapt to his feet and let out a hiss. The sound of the explosion was from an ad on TV, it seemed.

Sorata realised instantly that it was anime. There were giant robotic koalas on the screen swinging beam swords in space. And the explosions were pink. How could this not be anime?

"NEW MISAKI KAMIIGUSA MOVIE IN CINEMAS NOW!" read the caption onscreen. Sorata had to laugh a little. It seemed the Misaki-senpai of his memory hadn't changed in the slightest. She had to be popular nowadays, just like Jin was.

"Is that your idea of a good film, Asahi?" Sorata asked his cat, who only meowed weakly, as if dazed, in response. "I guess not. Too loud and annoying, isn't it?" Sorata changed the channel.

As soon as he had done so, he was seized with an irrational desire to change it back. The colours had been so vibrant. Misaki was either on hallucinates or she really had an imagination no one else could possibly rival. He wanted to see more of her. He wanted-

-_are you a masochist?-_

Quickly, he put down the remote and started to stroke Asahi. "There, there, Asahi. Calm down." The other five or so cats, seemingly jealous of Asahi's popularity, climbed onto Sorata's lap. He petted them and all his mind was at ease.

It was then his cellphone, which was lying on the kitchen bench, started to ring. Apologising profusely to his cats, Sorata got off the couch and hastily made his way over to his phone. An unknown number was calling him.

"Um, hello?"

"Konnichiwa, Sorata! This is Rita."

"You don't say 'konnichiwa' on the phone."

"Shut up," said Rita. "I don't speak nihongo."

Sorata smiled. So Rita had rung him back after all. It had been a whole week since the airport incident. Sorata had been so busy dealing with his overly emotional father and in catching up with his lost hours at work that he had lost track of the small things. He wondered how Mashiro was doing.

"Have you settled in by now?" he asked. "I assume you've been staying in Tokyo."

"Oh, of course! Absolutely! Mashiro's been great too. Thanks for helping her out the other day. She really can't take care of herself, you see. She's always got her head in the clouds."

"I could see that." Sorata laughed sheepishly. "But you're welcome."

Really, he thought, it was what anyone would have done.

"Um, listen," said Rita suddenly. "The real reason I got your number was because I thought you could help me with something."

"Me? Help you? With what?"

"It's about Mashiro."

That got Sorata's attention. "What about her? Is there anything wrong?"

"How do I put this…? You know how she's an artist? If you're into art, you'd probably know Mashiro Shiina's name."

Come to think of it, Sorata could vaguely remember reading her name somewhere…

"Surprised, right?" said Rita. "She's quite famous."

"I'm very almost not surprised," answered Sorata. It wasn't like Mashiro was the first talented and famous person he had ever known. Maybe it was _his _talent to be drawn to these people. At any rate, from that one sketch of Mashiro's he had seen, he could tell she had some considerable aptitude. It was no surprise, seeing it that way. Really no surprise at all.

Yet still…

"I don't really know how I could help her," he admitted. "If she's famous… well, aren't there other people who could do a much better job than me?"

Suddenly, he was not quite sure if he wanted to see Mashiro again. Why did this always happen to him? The more he dwelled on it, the more he could not help but think their encounter was not an event that slotted in with the rest of his life. It was like a return trip to Sakurasou in a way.

"No, no, she needs _you_," Rita said abruptly. "It's something only you can do."

"What?"

"Have you ever heard of artist's block?" Rita asked.

Sorata thought about it. He did know, but he didn't have the foggiest idea of where Rita was going with this. He was certainly no artist. "Isn't that when an artist can't draw for some reason?"

"Yes, that's right. It's something that happens to everyone in the creative arts at some point."

"What about it?"

Rita hesitated and then said, "Mashiro has it."

"What?" Sorata frowned. That did not make sense. "But didn't she draw _me_?"

"That was literally the first piece of artwork she has produced in a year. And she has not drawn anything since."

Sorata was dumbfounded.

"So wait… does that mean…?"

"That's right," said Rita. "I'm starting to think there was something about you that sparked her creativity that day. This might seem strange, but Sorata Kanda, I think you might just hold the key to Mashiro's muse."

He could not think. His head hurt. "N-No way…"

"It's hard to understand what makes an artist tick, I know, but for Mashiro's sake, I'm relying on you."

She was in deadly earnest. By now, Sorata could no longer perceive anything around him, only the weight of the phone in his hand and Rita's voice.

"I'm not an artist. I'm not talented. I'm not even interesting." He was babbling the truth as he knew it. "I can't help a genius like _her_."

He had come to the conclusion that he had lost his chance to be anything remotely resembling a famous artist long ago. There was nothing he could do about it now. He wasn't even Yuuko. He couldn't just keep trying – for he was a born quitter. It was in his instinct.

"I'm sure you're not giving yourself enough credit," Rita said soothingly. "Mashiro said she finds you interesting. Isn't that enough?"

"I suppose…"

"And look, I'm running out of options here. I can't impress that upon you enough," Rita continued. "In a month's time she's opening up her first art exhibition in Tokyo. She was paid big money to do this since she's Japanese by birth, you know. Anyway, if she opens up that exhibition with nothing new to show, her critics will be all over her. That time in France was already a disaster. She'll be ruined at this rate."

It seemed even geniuses had their problems.

"I-I see…"

"I've tried everything for her, but she just won't draw. She won't do it. She says nothing inspires her." Rita's voice was slowly getting more and more impassioned until it reached high crescendo. "Believe me, I didn't want to resort to this either, but I have no other choice but to call upon a stranger. I have a feeling you're a nice guy, so I know I can trust you somewhat. So please."

Sorata's heart seemed to thump in his mouth. It was impossible to conceive that there was a role like this for him in the world, that someone else could actually physically _need _him. The thought was just too bewildering no matter how Rita chose to spin it. Doing insignificant small acts of kindness was one thing, but _this_… the idea that Mashiro needed him and only him for her artistic muse...

"What do you… want me to do?" he asked falteringly.

"Isn't it obvious?" she barked.

"No," he said. "It really isn't."

"Then let me spell it out for you. I should think anyone is capable of doing this."

She cleared her throat imperiously, and then she said, without mincing any words:

"I want you to make love to her."


	3. I - The Pursuit of Nothing

**03 - The Pursuit of Nothing**

"Um, what," replied Sorata flatly.

"I said make love to her," said Rita in a no-nonsense manner. "Or is that phrase too antiquated? How about sex, then? Screwing?"

"I heard you the first time!"

It was the last thing Sorata expected to hear. Well, he had suspected Rita was a very liberal woman (foreigners seemed to be like that) but going from being an acquaintance to… _that_… was just way too sudden. Where on earth was the link between Mashiro's muse and making love?

"I guess it is kind of random," admitted Rita.

"A bit of an understatement, yeah."

"But I'm serious, you know."

Sorata's brain imploded. It said something about the absurdity of the situation that even he could not find an adequate retort. His understanding was beyond the limited capacity of his brain.

"J-Just explain to me why you said that," he gasped finally.

"Well, Mashiro's very… sheltered, you see. I think she needs some new life experiences. I think it would kick her muse into gear. She's thirty but she's still a virgin. I don't think she's ever kissed or had a boyfriend or anything either. The problem is that she's never shown any interest in a man until the other day."

"Yes, but what makes you think she wants to do it with me?!"

"Hmmm, I suppose that's a bit of a leap. I guess I should ask her. Mashiro!"

"Wait, what?! Don't ask her straight out! What are you-?!"

"Do you want to have sex with Sorata?"

"Sex?" said Mashiro's voice questioningly.

Sorata gagged. "Don't listen to her, Shiina-san! She's just joking around! There's no way-!"

"I'm okay with it," said Mashiro.

Silence.

"And there you have it," said Rita in a satisfied tone.

Sorata promptly died a little bit on the inside.

"But I want to draw first," said Mashiro tonelessly. "It won't make me draw."

"She's right!" Sorata declared, breathing a sigh of relief. He could put the awkwardness of this whole conversation behind him. "It won't make her draw so there's no point doing it straight away."

"Does that mean you want to do it with her eventually?" asked Rita.

"Stop asking personal questions!"

"Gosh, you're a tightass. Why do you Japanese men have to be so reserved? It's irritating."

"It's natural! I just met you last week!"

"Well, fine," said Rita with a lavish sigh. "Just go out for dinner with her, then."

Even that was quite a stretch for Sorata, but at least it was within reasonable limits. The problem now was that he probably wouldn't be able to _stop _thinking about sex when he actually did meet up with Mashiro.

"You just ruined a courtship," Sorata said to Rita. "I hate you."

"At least you're serious about her."

"I'm seriously _mad_! That's what I am!"

"If it takes something tiny like that to disrupt your love life, then you have to consider that it might be stopping you from getting laid."

"What's making you think I'm not getting laid?!"

"What, then you are?"

"…"

"Anyway, this Sunday, are you free?" Sorata could almost _hear _Rita smirking on her end of the line.

_Bah_. "Well, I guess. Yeah."

"Good, then you're having dinner with Mashiro. Come to Ikebukuro station at six."

"I have a feeling I'm just a tool to you," Sorata muttered.

"Hmm, what did you say?"

"… Nothing."

And that was the story of how, very abruptly and unceremoniously, Sorata found himself with a pseudo-girlfriend.

* * *

Some part of Sorata did know that Rita was pressed for time. She was banking everything on this supposed relationship between Sorata and Mashiro. The thing was that Sorata could not see it. If a relationship was what he wanted, he would rather it developed normally with minimal interference from others. As it was, the whole thing felt rushed and totally half-baked.

After some time, which meant after he had gotten over some of his embarrassment, he found himself thinking about Mashiro and her muse. Lack of inspiration really sounded like a problem. He decided he _would _help Mashiro – with less extreme methods than Rita proposed. It just seemed like the right thing to do for now. Dating could only come later, when he knew her a little better and could decide how he felt about her as a person.

But of course, he had no understanding of the artistic muse. That was another thing. So that night, Sorata decided to search the Internet about it. It seemed there were a number of small things a person could do to overcome an artistic block: take a walk, set goals, try a different media, look at other people's art… In general, artist's block didn't seem like such a big deal to Sorata. He wrote down all the tips he could find, feeling satisfied that out of his whole list, _something _would appeal to Mashiro.

During the week, he pondered the question even more. But when he asked his workmates about it, the answers he got were very vague. Nobody was a very creative person at this firm, it seemed. Sorata found himself very unsurprised by that.

In the evening, he got an email from Yuuko. She said that she and Tadashi were settling in well enough in Vienna, though their schedules were hectic for now. She promised to give a more detailed report when she had more time.

At the very bottom of the email, Yuuko wrote: _I thought this might come in handy for you._

There, she had written out Jin's cellphone number.

_Of all the nerve_, was Sorata's first thought. Jin had actually given his phone number to Sorata's _sister _and not to Sorata himself. This was surely a man driven by his genitals. Or maybe he had just assumed Yuuko would pass along the number to Sorata too. That seemed equally likely.

In any case, knowing how to contact Jin was a good thing. Under normal circumstances, Sorata would have found himself hesitating about calling him, but now that he had Mashiro to think about, he found he had no problem. After all, Jin was in the creative business himself – he would know a thing or two about the artistic muse.

As soon as he read the email, Sorata rang Jin. He was disappointed when he only reached voicemail. Of course, he realised numbly. Jin was busy – famous people were like that, weren't they? Sorata left a message and closed his phone with a sigh.

After that, he went back to searching artist's block on the Internet, but at some point, he found himself looking up Mashiro Shiina instead.

Mashiro's story, it seemed, was this: hailed from the time of her youth as an artistic genius, she specialised in abstract paintings. Her peak output was during her teenage years – after that, her creativity slowly but surely began to fizzle out. Even so, she seemed to have quite a few Japanese fans, judging from the forums Sorata visited. Her paintings sold for millions of yen apiece. Quite frankly, the more Sorata read, the more he was convinced that he would never be able to help her. The list of advice he had written seemed more and more insignificant by the second.

It was then his phone rang. It was Jin! Sorata put the phone to his ear. "Hello, Jin-san?"

"Sorry for not answering your call before," Jin explained. "I was busy making negotiations with Nyaboron Animation."

"Nyaboron Animation?"

"Oh, just an anime company," Jin said with a laugh. "They offered to make an anime out of _Mushoku no Midori-iro_. I said no, of course."

"Why?" If it was Sorata, he would love for any story he had written to be turned into an anime. He couldn't think why anyone would say no to a deal like that.

"An anime wouldn't suit the stories I try to tell," Jin said. "Not anymore."

There was a note of finality in his voice.

"Ah," said Sorata noncommittally.

An unspoken name hovered between them.

"But anyway," said Jin smoothly. "That's not what you wanted to talk about, is it? Why did you ring? Just wanted to catch up?"

"Kind of," said Sorata. "I just found myself curious but… where do you get the ideas for your stories?"

"Trying to be a writer, Sorata?"

"It's not for me."

Jin chuckled. "Well, let's say I draw my inspiration from life. Not from specific events or anything but the emotions, yes. I research a lot before I write. "

Sorata thought about that. He supposed it made sense. "Do all your books have a sexual theme?" he asked, remembering _Mushoku no Midori-iro _and how uncomfortable the sex scenes in it had made him.

"Most of them do, yes," Jin admitted.

"Hmm, I wonder what's on your mind all the time," Sorata remarked dryly.

"Hey now," said Jin. "The last thing you should do is call an artist a pervert."

Sorata decided not to argue about that. It sounded like a contentious subject. Instead he asked, "Does sex really inspire the muse?"

He was looking down at his list of strategies to get over artist's block. Sex featured nowhere. "Write up random subjects to draw about, put them on a dartboard and decide by throwing darts," however, did get a few mentions.

"Think of it this way," said Jin. "I think you'd agree with me when I say that the desire for sex is a fundamental part of being human."

"Well, yeah…"

"Then it would be natural for me to be interested in writing about it," Jin concluded.

Personally, Sorata had not liked the way Jin had written about the subject. It wasn't pornographic or anything like that, but it had stripped away all the pleasure in the act. It felt so… meaningless. Did people really think about how empty they were on the inside when they made love? Sorata had certainly never thought of such things from his own (albeit, limited) experience.

He decided not to mention such criticism to Jin, though. What did he know about art, anyway? The more he interacted with these famous artist types, the less he realised he knew.

"So what you're saying is that it _does _inspire you to write more." That was all Sorata wanted to know, really. He just wanted to make certain.

"Honestly, it depends on the person," Jin replied. "Why do you want to know?"

Sorata hesitated before explaining Mashiro's dilemma – without dropping any names, of course.

"So you're saying this friend of yours has artist's block?" said Jin in a confirming tone.

"Yeah. I thought you could help me, Jin-san. What do you do when you get it? I looked up advice on the Internet but…"

"I wouldn't listen to any of that," said Jin with a laugh.

"Huh? Why?"

"Because everyone's different. Everyone has different habits that work for them. No professional artist can afford to be a slave to their muse – artist's block is something that's just in the mind, anyway. If a person can't get over it by themself, then I would say they simply don't have self-discipline."

It made sense to Sorata, but… "The person I'm talking about _is _a professional. She just says nothing inspires her _right now_."

"That's different, then," said Jin.

"What do you mean?"

"No matter how good you are at expressing art, you can't do it when there's nothing you want to express."

* * *

Talking to Jin, Sorata realised, was always a strange experience. Jin was intelligent – that much was obvious. In fact, he talked on a much higher level than anyone else Sorata interacted with in his life. Their conversations never felt trivial and it was as if by talking to Jin, Sorata realised just how small his previous worldview had always been. Sorata could hardly remember what kind of conversations they had back when they lived in the same dorm, but the Jin Mitaka he knew right now had an edge to him that underlay everything he said, even the simple and innocent things.

Mashiro was different. It was like she was floating and nothing could touch her. She didn't seem quite _real_, and certainly not as real as Jin did. Jin's words discomforted Sorata. If he was right that Mashiro's artist block could only be overcome by herself, then there would be no point in Sorata doing anything for her.

So it was with great trepidation that Sorata came to meet Mashiro at Ikebukuro station. During the train ride, he kept going over all the things he thought would be right to say to her – and he brought the list of advice just in case. Just before he arrived at the stop, he got a text message from Rita:

_Be yourself._

"That's even less help!" Sorata moaned aloud. But he had no more time to think things through. The train had stopped at Ikebukuro station. Almost as soon as Sorata stepped out, he spotted Mashiro leaning back against the nearby wall, clutching a sketchbook in her hand. Rita was mercifully nowhere in sight.

Sorata had no idea what to do. All the thinking hadn't helped him in the slightest. How to begin the conversation? His mouth was dry.

"Hello," said Mashiro.

"Hello," said Sorata.

Mashiro was silent.

Sorata smiled at her weakly.

"Hello," said Mashiro again, after some pause.

"You don't have to repeat yourself!"

And with that, the ice broke. Even as he made an exasperated comment, Sorata found himself smiling. "Come on then," he said to Mashiro. "Do you have any plans?"

Mashiro shook her head.

"That's fine," said Sorata gently. "Let's get something to eat first. And then we can talk and you can draw, right? That's the point of this."

"Sorata."

"Y-Yeah?" He was startled at how directly she called him by his first name.

"Thank you."

"You're welcome."

They started walking. A million questions swirled within Sorata's head; he did not know where to begin. Why him? If there was any question that was the biggest, it would be that. What could Mashiro, a genius artist who had been painting professional works since elementary school, possibly see in him that would inspire her?

How did Mashiro see the world in general? That was perhaps the bigger question.

"Hey, Shiina-san. What do you think when you paint?"

"I don't know."

He was surprised. "You don't know? Don't you… draw from life or something? Isn't that what artists do?"

"Maybe," said Mashiro.

"So, uh, when do you get inspired?"

"When I feel like it," said Mashiro, cocking her head slightly.

"Are you inspired right now?"

Mashiro seemed to think about it. "No."

Sorata got the distinct feeling that the more he talked to Mashiro the less he understood her. "Rita-san said you wanted to draw me."

"I do."

Sorata stared at her blank expression. "So aren't you inspired right now?"

"No."

"Huh? Why not?"

"It's different," was all Mashiro said.

"Oh, _whatever_," said Sorata with a groan. "Let's just eat."

"I want fish and chips."

"Could you have said that _before _we walked into a sushi bar?! And where can you get fish and chips in downtown Ikebukuro?!"

"You look mad, Sorata."

That made him calm down a little. "Oh, sorry," he apologised quickly. "I mean, you artist types do different things for your muse, right? Ahahahaha!"

"I like fish and chips because they taste good."

"You really do have a strange way of looking at things, Shiina-san…"

"Sorata, I'm hungry."

"_Okay, okay._"

* * *

They did eventually, through some minor miracle, find a restaurant that sold the kind of food that Mashiro liked. As Mashiro daintily munched away on her food (she had not brought her wallet so Sorata paid for her) he found himself stealing glances at her. He was not hungry himself. Perhaps the fascination that was Mashiro Shiina made him forget all notions of eating.

No wonder Rita treated her like a child. In a lot of ways, Mashiro Shiina was still very much a child. She completely lacked social skills, for a start, despite being thirty. She looked around the world with a sense of carefree, childlike wonder, even if her expressions never seemed to change.

If Mashiro were still a precocious grade schooler, this would be cute, probably. Or even a teenager. They could make a show out of it and sell thousands of Blurays. But she was thirty and it was clear no one had ever bothered to try and meld her into a normal person. In a way, Sorata was concerned for her, but in another way, he was envious of her. She was freedom encapsulated.

Even so…

"That's not moe," Sorata muttered to himself as he gazed at Mashiro. She'd forgotten to wipe the sauce off her face. "That's not moe at all." He leaned across with a napkin and started to wipe her face.

She was staring at him. Their proximities were close. He couldn't help but be struck by the thought that – she _was _pretty_. _Sorata could not exactly forget that. No, she wasn't a child. She wasn't…

"Sorata?"

"Oh, sorry!" Sorata exclaimed, shying away immediately. "I was just… cleaning you up…"

She blinked once, her expression unchanging. She was seemingly oblivious to Sorata's nervous blushing and hopefully of his thoughts too. He couldn't exactly get Rita's words out of his mind.

"I'll start drawing now," she announced.

"Go ahead."

He watched as with great care, she opened her sketchbook and started drawing. Sorata sat very still. It was just like last time, he thought, as he felt Mashiro's unblinking eyes take in everything about him. It was like she was seeing right through him, but at the same time, as if her gaze was merely bouncing off him. She was looking both at him and through him.

"Shiina-san, why me?" he blurted out suddenly.

Her hand paused. "Hmm?"

"What makes you interested in _me_, Shiina-san?" he asked. "I want to know… I'm curious…" His voice trailed off.

"I don't know," said Mashiro, going back to drawing. Sorata was dismayed. Maybe she didn't think it was worth analysing too deeply. But Sorata had always known himself as the type who thought too much.

"Is it because I'm a man?"

Mashiro looked up at him, her sharp, golden eyes betraying nothing of her intimate thoughts. Actually, thought Sorata, as a tingle went down his spine, there was nothing childlike about the way she looked at him. Children were so much easier to read.

"I don't know," Mashiro said again.

"I… see…" Maybe Mashiro's eye did not distinguish between genders. People were people, after all. "Shiina-san…"

"Call me Mashiro."

He couldn't do that. So he settled on a compromise. "Shiina."

Her eyes flickered with the barest hint of annoyance. She did not respond.

"Shiina, what is it that you want?"

"What I want…"

"I mean, something's stopping you from drawing a lot, isn't there? Rita-san told me. I don't know a lot about what it means to be an artist, but…" He handed over his list to her. "I hope you can keep drawing."

But Mashiro spared no glance at the paper in Sorata's hand. She simply kept on drawing. Sorata smiled, putting the paper down on the table. It was better this way.

The silence began to pile up between the two of them. Mashiro was evidently concentrating hard; Sorata could see her brow creasing slightly over her otherwise glass-like features. The subtle intensity took his breath away. He could not tear his gaze away from her.

His heart started to beat more fervently in his chest. He knew Mashiro probably didn't see him as a man. He was probably just another abstraction to her. Rita was _wrong_. But his heart kept pulsating and he found it hard to swallow the thrill he felt as her gaze bore into him.

"Sorata," Mashiro said suddenly.

Sorata _yelped_. He hadn't expected her to speak to him. "Y-Yes, Shiina?"

And then without warning, Mashiro tore out the page she was drawing and scrunched it up into a ball. She did it carefully and deliberately, like everything she did.

"I didn't like my sketch."

His heart pricked with disappointment. "Oh, Shiina…"

"I'll start again."

They remained like that. Mashiro kept on drawing and drawing, even as the night matured and all the other customers slowly left the restaurant, one by one. Sorata waited patiently, but Mashiro kept tearing up each page she drew on until the last page was gone. Then she stared down at the empty book and the torn leaves on the table, her mouth downturned. The subtle intensity was gone from her eyes.

"You don't have to be _perfect_," Sorata assured her kindly.

"I know," said Mashiro quietly.

"Then-"

"I just don't like it."

She sat still and silently after that. "Look," began Sorata gently. "I think I'd better be going now. I have work tomorrow. I'm sorry you couldn't draw anything you were satisfied with. We'll try again tomorrow, okay?"

"Stay with me, Sorata."

He was conscious of how his heart was pounding. "I _can't_. I'd like to, but I-"

"I'll draw more at the studio."

Sorata closed his eyes and thought. The last train had probably already departed by now. Either way, he would have to be staying overnight in Tokyo. Maybe that wasn't such a bad idea since he wouldn't have to travel that far for work tomorrow.

"Okay," he said, opening his eyes. "Is there a place to sleep over there?"

Mashiro nodded slightly.

"Okay, then," said Sorata, smiling at her. "You know where it is from here, right?"

Mashiro nodded again.

What was he doing? She was inviting him to sleep under the same roof as her. It was so dangerous for her. He wanted to tell her that, but he couldn't. He couldn't control the sense of excitement that was pulsating through him, like currents of electricity. He had told himself he would be rational over this and take things slowly, treat Mashiro like a friend, _but_…

Everything was moving quickly. He took Mashiro's arm as they walked down the street together. The streets of Ikebukuro were dangerous at this time of the night. His heart was in his mouth, not just from the scent of danger and paranoia but from the feeling of proximity, from being close to _her_. Her presence was blinding him.

_Oh god _this was going to go too far, wasn't it. He wouldn't be able to control himself, would he. It was easy to moralise about what his conduct should be when he wasn't anywhere near Mashiro but now that they were standing together close like this… This wasn't like any of the girlfriends he had ever had in his life. This didn't feel like he was moving through stages. (Three dates and then he could hold her hand. Four more dates and then he could kiss her. And then after that...) No, this didn't have any sense of progression at all. This was just… this. He couldn't describe the feeling of _this_.

At first, he was paralysed, feeling the stiffness in his limbs as he walked with his arms linked with hers. But then he started breathing more slowly through his nose and with each inhalation, he got more intoxicated with the scent of _her_, and it soothed him. Soothed him while still his heart beat faster and faster and he imagined how it would feel when they got there and he could hold her down and _and_-

The cool Tokyo air hit him in the face and he breathed it in. "Shiina, are you sure you know where we're going?"

"Yes," came Mashiro's voice from next to him, sounding soft.

He figured he should at least tell her _something_. "Shiina, If I end up doing something stupid, I-"

"We're here," she broke in. She pointed at a single storey building looming in front of them, partly obscured by the darkness.

Mashiro started to open the door. "Shiina, please don't trust me so much," Sorata babbled. "We've only just met. I-It's better if I find a hotel."

Why was he saying this _now_? Of course he wanted to spend the night with her. He was just being feeble.

Maybe Mashiro noticed that too. "Stay with me," she said firmly. "I want to draw you." She opened the door and ushered him inside. The lights were already on, revealing three rooms. Rita had probably left everything like this for the two of them. Was this her plan? _Ohgod ohgod._

The first room was a small kitchen and lounging area. From there, the hallway split into two directions – one way was a small bedroom (_only one bed, _Sorata realised with a gulp) and the other room, by far the larger one, constituted the actual studio. This was the room filled with art equipment that was pushed up against the walls. A large, table-sized white canvas was situated right in the centre of the room and in front of it there was a cushioned sofa for modelling in.

"Sit," said Mashiro.

Nervously, Sorata sat down. Mashiro was staring at him yet again.

"Relax," she ordered him, and then she reached for the paintbrush lined up beside the canvas. She paused for a moment.

"Shiina…?"

Mashiro began to shrug off her coat.

"H-Hey! Don't take off your clothes! _Shiiiiiina!_"

"But I'm hot."

"Turn off the heater! It looks like it's been on all day!"

Come to think of it, it _was _pretty hot and stuffy in here. By the time he and Mashiro hunted down the heater and turned it off, he was sweating. He kind of wanted to take off his coat too. (_Oh god no he couldn't do that oh no not in front of her.)_

"Sorata."

"Y-Yes?"

"Take off your clothes."

He blinked and stared. The words took a full five seconds to sink in. Then his brain fried.

"Wh-What are you talking about?! We're just acquaintances! We've only just-!"

"I want to paint you naked."

"WHY?! WHY WOULD YOU DO SUCH A THING?! YOU'RE NOT PUTTING THIS UP IN A MUSEUM, ARE YOU?!"

"Only if it's good enough."

Sorata was no longer capable of making coherent noises at this point.

"Sorata."

"What is it now?!"

"Take it off."

"I would rather die!"

* * *

His body felt weightless without any clothes on. They lay neatly on a pile next to the sofa. Sorata tried to make himself feel comfortable, but this felt like something beyond his human capabilities. Mashiro painted quickly, gazing at him frequently from behind the canvas.

How did it come to this? Sorata was no longer capable of rational thought. Mashiro was looking at his naked body and she was painting it. The only words of comfort Sorata had for this situation was what Jin had told him: _"The last thing you should do is call an artist a pervert."_

He could trust Mashiro. Indeed, he could. She was no pervert. As he watched her, he could see her eyes trailing down-

"Wait, hang on, where are you looking at?!"

"Move your hand, Sorata."

Okay, Jin was _wrong_.

"This is sexual harassment!" Sorata moaned. "Of all things, why a nude painting? Someone please tell me!"

"Because clothes hide our true humanity."

"That sounds suspiciously like bullshit."

"If you're uncomfortable," Mashiro said, "I can take off my clothes too."

"NO, THANK YOU!"

"Okay," said Mashiro. She went back to painting. "Move your hand," she said again at length.

"Why is our conversation looping?!"

Sorata yelled to hide his embarrassment. There were some things about himself that he simply couldn't show to Mashiro – or to anyone in general. The last thing he wanted to do now was act on his desires when Mashiro was finally painting again. _Self-control, self-control._

But oh god it was hard. His field of vision had narrowed into a dim, red haze. Every thought and pent-up desire he had inside him rushed to his groin, as if it was possessed with a mind of its own. If Mashiro said anything now, he would be incapable of responding to her. His body was hot, almost feverish. He _wanted _her – there was currently no other truth to his existence.

He didn't know how long he sat there, with the blood pulsating through him almost violently. Eventually, he noticed Mashiro put down her brush and for a long moment there was silence.

Then Mashiro walked over to him and said, "I'm finished."

"Th-Thank goodness for that!"

Before Sorata could reach for his clothes, Mashiro took his arm and pointed mutely at the tilted canvas. He could see her final work from where he sat. A rapid swirl of unidentifiable emotion rose up inside of him. Maybe it had extra meaning for him because this was _his _portrait he was looking at.

The first thing he realised was that Mashiro's painting was abstract. She might have drawn him naked but there was nothing explicit or even remotely sexual about how she had framed it. In fact, it took a moment for him to realise that it was a nude painting at all. There was no definition in his muscles – instead, she had portrayed him as genderless but still unmistakably human. An opalescent sheen pervaded the entire canvas.

Was this how Mashiro saw him? The opalescence was striking. In fact, it was the first thing any onlooker would see. Sorata was reminded of how he had imagined Mashiro gazing at him – looking both through him and at him.

He shivered. The portrait betrayed a beauty that astounded and terrified him. When he finally tore his gaze away, the image continued to swirl in the forefront of his mind, ever-changing. It was abstract, but it was the most chillingly intimate and most revealing thing Sorata had ever seen.

"Why me?" he asked her again. "What good do you see in me?"

This time, it seemed Mashiro had an answer. She was looking at the painting as she responded. "You have no colour."

"Colour?"

"Everyone has one. But not you."

He gazed once more at the painting. Mashiro saw everything in bursts of vivid colour, but not him. He wasn't even monochrome, just opalescent, with the light reflecting off him, having no identity of his own.

"It's not enough," Mashiro broke in suddenly.

"You don't think the painting is good?" he asked incredulously. "But you painted it so quickly and it's amazing and-"

"I want to explore every part of you."

"Could you at least _try _not to make that sound dirty?!"

Mashiro simply cocked her head.

Sorata was suddenly conscious that he was still naked and how the blood still rushed between his legs. He turned away quickly. "Listen," he said, as he reached for his clothes. "You don't want to get to know me better. Otherwise, we'll hit a point and… and we won't be able to turn back."

He stiffened. He had put on his pants but Mashiro was touching his bare back. It was like an electric jolt went through him.

"I have drawn many paintings like that," she told him quietly. "I want to paint something deeper."

"Something… deeper?"

Mashiro nodded.

This was his chance, he realised. He knew he couldn't operate on the same abstract level as Mashiro. He was just too human.

"Rita-san said that we should…" He trailed off. Gazing into Mashiro's unblinking eyes, he tried again. "If you think it'll do any good…"

His lips were only a mere inch away from hers.

The closeness blinded him. His arms were around her, and he pressed the hardness of his own body against the softness of hers. His heart was beating frantically – he had so desperately wanted to know how it would feel to touch Mashiro like this.

It was Mashiro's eyes that stopped him. Her emotionless eyes, not even flickering once as he drew closer to her.

"No," he breathed against her mouth.

A sickening flood of shame hit him. All that time he had been sitting on that sofa thinking of nothing but how he could make love to Mashiro. His thoughts had been earthly and vile. But Mashiro, it seemed, was totally aloof and untouchable. They might be touching right now but they lived in totally different worlds.

He drew back, covering his mouth in mortification. "This isn't for you, it's for me."

But Mashiro was no longer looking at him. She was looking at the ceiling.

"I'll go to sleep now," he said quickly. "I'm sorry, Shiina."

"Then I'll keep painting," she said quietly.

She went back to the canvas, her mouth turning back downwards. Sorata did not move immediately; for a moment, he simply just watched her. He couldn't describe how he felt about her or even begin to guess how she felt about him. They were like two forces bouncing off each other, never truly reaching each other at all. He wanted to touch her but as soon as he did, he realised how futile it was. In a way, it was like she didn't exist. She was like an abstraction in the mind, an unseen force that pulled and twisted on his imagination. He could never be on the same level as her. He knew all that, but it had never felt so _clear _to him until now.

His breath heaved.

"Good night, Shiina."

"Good night, Sorata."

The words floated around his ears. Her voice, vague and dreamlike. He _wanted_, oh he wanted so much. Closing his eyes, he curled up on the sofa.

(The idea only occurred to him much, much later that in her search for artistic perfection, Mashiro Shiina had never looked more human.)


	4. II - Green-eyed Monster

**Part II: The Place Promised In Our Early Days**

**04 – Green-eyed Monster**

Jin Mitaka had not been looking forward to the letter. He did not expect it, yet he still dreaded its coming. It was plain, white and official – somehow, he had assumed it would be shocking pink – but the words inside filled him with the same sense of cutting ambivalence he always knew was coming.

It took him two hours to write out what he thought was an appropriate response. In the end, he settled for tactile bluntness. _It is not in my interest to see an anime adaptation of _Mushoku no Midori-iro. _I will not be changing my mind on this issue._

He hesitated before he posted the letter. As a writer, Jin ascribed a powerful, almost mythic quality to words. A true artisan of words could shape a person's emotions the same way his hands could shape wire. How would she feel when she read his letter? He knew he sounded cold. He did not mean to be cold. But he no longer considered himself capable of writing with kindness. In the end, he sent the letter anyway, figuring that it couldn't be helped.

It seemed like such a simple thing at the time. But that was how stories started – the foundations were set long before the opening act. He should have known what was coming even then, but how was he to understand what went through an alien's mind? Of course he would underestimate her. He always did, every single time.

Quite predictably, his editor was flabbergasted. When Jin walked into his office the next day and told him what he had done, he opened his mouth, closed it and then opened it again and left his jaw hanging down like a dead fish.

"I thought you'd leap at the idea of having your work adapted by Nyaboron Animation," he mumbled, when he had finally come to his senses.

Jin's editor was an elderly, sedate man who somehow still managed to be surprised by pretty much anything he encountered in life. He looked like a grizzly koala. His life and joy were his grandchildren, who appeared to love him because he gave them 2000 yen every time they visited him. His cuddly appearance did not fool Jin, however – he was a grammar Nazi through and through.

"I mean," his editor went on, "Nyaboron Animation made that _Mouretsu ni Nemuru _movie. My grandchildren love that."

_Mouretsu ni Nemuru _was a mecha anime about an intergalactic war between space koalas and space kangaroos. The space koalas fought with beam swords and the space kangaroos fought with rainbow boomerangs. This was what Jin gathered from the trailer – that and the animation seemed to surpass all human capabilities. One couldn't expect any less from a movie directed by Misaki Kamiigusa.

"If I accepted the offer," Jin said with a slight smile, "the sales of my book would skyrocket."

"Then why on earth don't you?" his editor asked incredulously.

"I don't want to tarnish Nyaboron Animation's good name."

His editor did not understand, even after that explanation. Jin expected that. Nobody these days seemed to know that Jin Mitaka had once written scripts for Misaki Kamiigusa.

There were exceptions, of course. Sorata Kanda seemed to remember. (He had not exactly been in a position to forget.) Ryuunosuke Akasaka too, maybe, though he had been nothing but a ghost at Sakurasou and Jin had not seen him since. And then there was Soichiro Tatebayashi, the old student council president, though he knew better than to discuss Misaki with him.

Even Soichiro, however, was a little surprised at Jin's refusal.

"I thought you were a businessman, Jin," was the first thing he said to him.

Every fortnight or so, Jin visited Soichiro's house and had lunch with him. This was one of the things that had sort of crept up in their relationship. They had been simple friends during high school and dorm mates in university. By the time Soichiro admitted that he and Jin were best friends, it was long after Jin had been the Best Man at his wedding.

(There had been stipulations, however: "If you muck around with my wife, Jin, we are no longer friends. I will take great care in ripping off your scrotum. Heed that.")

"You're blunt as ever, Soichiro," Jin remarked wryly.

"In my opinion, you need it." Soichiro pushed up his glasses and put down his teacup, his brow creased sternly.

"Of course," said Jin. "I'm a bullshit artist."

"Damn straight. Why refuse an anime adaptation? Well, maybe you're just waiting for a live action adaptation or something, but Nyaboron Animation is like the Hollywood of anime studios. Everyone and his dog has heard of it."

"Too mainstream."

"You bastard."

Jin chuckled. Even as he did so, the real reason behind his refusal still hung dangerously low over both of them, and so he decided to change the subject.

"So how are things in the art world?" he asked.

Soichiro was a professional appreciator of art. Like Jin, he was a writer, but of a different sort. He was the editor and main reviewer of a journal on contemporary art called BIJUTSU UNBALANCE. To Jin, the name sounded like the title of a B-grade ninja movie. Soichiro was blunt, but he had a cheesy side to him.

A slight smile came over Soichiro's face. He enjoyed talking about art. In fact, it seemed for the moment, he had totally forgotten about Jin's anime offer, which was great because that was Jin's intention.

"It's exciting right now," Soichiro confided to him. "Mashiro Shiina's come to Japan. You'll be coming to her exhibition too, won't you?"

"Of course." Jin usually went out with Soichiro and his wife Saori to these things. Because of Soichiro, he knew more about contemporary artists than most people. Mashiro Shiina, however, was a name even non-art enthusiasts would have heard of, particularly around ten years ago. She hadn't done all that much since, though.

Soichiro had his own opinions on that.

"It's a shame," he commented. "There's no question she's a genius, but her art has been stagnant lately. To me, it betrays a feeling of being a caged bird."

Jin nodded in understanding. He rather enjoyed Soichiro's insights. He might not call himself an artist, but his reviews were a kind of art in and of itself. It took an artist to be touched deeply by a work of art.

"Do you think she's aware of it herself?" Jin asked. "That she's been stagnant?"

"Oh, no question about it. Every artist just _knows_, wouldn't you say? Notice the heavier brush strokes juxtaposed with the brighter, vivid palette in her latest work. It's an odd combination and it feels too forceful for Shiina-sensei. You're meant to be overwhelmed with colour when you look at it, but it feels draining. She's become too self-aware, that's the problem."

_Too self-aware, huh?_

Jin's lip turned upward into a rueful smile. He knew that feeling all too well.

"You're going to interview her for your journal sometime, aren't you?" said Jin. "Why don't you introduce me to her?"

"What for?"

Jin could hardly explain it himself. It was more than her being a celebrity. Jin felt that there was a story in this, something was worth telling. Somehow, this was all tied together. His instinct as a writer spoke to him.

"I'm just curious," he replied.

Soichiro looked at him strangely. "Well, okay," he said finally, "but don't hit on her. It's distracting if you do that."

Soichiro seemed to have absolutely no faith in him. Really, Jin was not nearly as much of a playboy as Soichiro seemed to think he was, at least not these days. Then again, Soichiro had only ever had sex with one woman in his entire life. Pretty much anyone would seem like a playboy to someone like that.

Jin laughed, though. He didn't mind people like that at all. "Duly noted," he said with a smile.

* * *

His opportunity to see Mashiro Shiina came a week later. By then, the tremors had already started.

Two days after he sent his letter, he got a phone call from Nyaboron Animation. "The director would like to speak to you personally," said the lady on the phone.

Jin paused. For some reason, Misaki was being so very persistent. When he had told Sorata he hadn't spoken to Misaki in years, that was true enough; Misaki was too busy these days to meet with anyone outside her own work. They did, however, continue to exchange a few emails and text messages, enough to know that they were both doing fine in their respective fields. Through that, some semblance of their once close friendship remained. But now Misaki wanted to put him into her work. He hadn't responded to her text messages ("LET'S MAKE AN ANIME TOGETHER! ( ´ ▽ ` )ﾉ") so now, he realised, she was going about it the official way.

"_Jin Jin JinJINJIN!_" she chirped when she came onto the line. "What's with that refusal? I thought it was your dream to make anime with me!"

"Misaki, that was when we were kids," he reminded her gently.

"So what?" she asked. "If we can make it, we should totally do it! Reach for the stars! Kaboom!"

Part of Jin's heart clenched. This surprised him, actually. He thought he would have become desensitised to such sensations after all these years. He felt slightly ill.

"You already know my answer, Misaki."

Her tone changed suddenly.

"… Jin. Why are you so cold?"

He blinked a few times and bit his lip, glancing down at the laptop on his desk. He had been writing before she had called, though he had mustered only a few lines. Clutching the phone in one hand, he hit the Backspace key. He was not satisfied with how his prose came out suddenly.

"Jiiiiiiiin," Misaki called his name again, a touch of desperation in her tone. "Why won't you make the anime with me?"

He closed his laptop. "Let me ask _you _something. Do you like my book?"

"It doesn't matter whether I like it or not! What have I been telling you? It's _you _who I-"

"You shouldn't adapt a story you don't like," Jin said shortly. "It won't satisfy your audience."

"But-"

"_Mushoku no Midori-iro _isn't some light novel. Just how much anime is adapted from adult fiction novels anyway? There can be none of this 'fanservice' you put in anime. From a commercial standpoint, your project is going to be a failure before you even begin."

He had written more or less the same thing in his letter. Jin suspected that Misaki's fellow staff members at Nyaboron Animation had strongly discouraged her from pursuing her idea. Nyaboron Animation mostly focused on appealing to young children and teenagers, though like with all great children's fiction, adults liked it too. But the latter was a periphery audience, and Misaki should have known this. Her emotions were blinding her from what was practical.

"I hate your logic, Jin," Misaki said bitterly. "I've never cared about money! Ever! You know that, Jin!"

"I know," said Jin. "You're lucky you're talented."

"You've changed." It was not the first time Misaki had said that to him. But the words, spoken without resentment, only deep sadness, still cut deeply.

He exhaled slowly. "That's what happens. For what it's worth, I think you've changed too."

There was a pause. "I don't understand anymore," she said, and then she hung up.

Jin felt the heaviness in the air for a long time afterwards. His phone rang again, but he didn't answer it. He opened his laptop again, typed down a few words, and then with a heavy hand he hit the Backspace key again. Emotion – _real _emotion – had a way of distorting otherwise perfectly rounded writing.

It wasn't until an hour or so had passed in silence and fruitless creation like this that Jin looked back at his phone and realised it was Sorata who rang him and not Misaki.

Jin liked Sorata. He was a harmless sort. No enemies, though probably many people who took his presence for granted. The things that Jin liked about him were probably the very things that Sorata disliked about himself. That was the way with these kind, harmless sorts. Their own inherent goodness was the reason for their failures. Truth be told, Jin would probably have forgotten Sorata completely if it weren't for the fact that he was actually rather witty.

At that time, Jin could not have conceived the effect he had on Sorata's life, nor could he have envisioned how central the role Sorata would play in his.

"Listen," said Sorata, when Jin rang him back, "I have this friend who has artist's block…"

* * *

Soichiro made Jin drive to Mashiro Shiina's studio in Ikebukuro. He figured since Jin was freeloading, he may as well drive. On the way, they didn't talk about art. Soichiro mentioned something about him and his wife's upcoming anniversary and how Saori wanted a child and how they wanted to teach him piano. (_Damn_, Jin found himself thinking. He could not imagine himself with children.) Soichiro, at least, seemed to be in a good mood.

This was a good thing, because if Soichiro were not in such a good mood, he would probably have noticed how Jin was quieter than usual. He was replaying that conversation with Misaki over and over in his mind. How long had it been since he had last heard her voice? It had been too long.

But it wasn't like they could bridge all the gaps in their relationship now, could they…

"Hey, look where you're driving," said Soichiro suddenly. "We're almost there – slow down."

"Haha, right," said Jin, turning the corner. The studio loomed in sight, looking rather inconspicuous because it was nestled between two taller buildings.

Jin had no idea what to expect from Mashiro Shiina. He actually hadn't put all that much thought into it. Soichiro, however, seemed to be somewhat excited. He strode purposefully out of the car and pushed up his glasses in a brisk motion. "I talked with her agent on the phone. She said she's fine with having you around as long as you don't talk during the interview."

That was fine. Jin did not think he would have that much to say, anyway. He preferred to simply observe in these cases.

He stood by watching as Soichiro knocked on the door. No one answered. Soichiro glanced quizzically at Jin before putting his hand hesitantly on the doorknob. The door opened noiselessly.

As soon as they walked in, they found five cats slinking around the hallway. They stopped at the sound of footsteps and stared up expressionlessly at Soichiro and Jin. It seemed to Jin that Mashiro Shiina was quite possibly a great lover of cats.

"Hello, is anyone here?" Soichiro asked, gazing around. His voice echoed around the hallway. "Looks like she's out."

"Wait, can't you hear music from that room?" Jin asked, pointing to the closed door at the end of the hallway.

They both fell silent, listening to the sound. It was unmistakably J-Pop – a very popular tune that played frequently on the radio these days. Actually, it was the _Mouretsu ni Nemuru _main theme, Jin realised:

"_Ashita no BRAVE LOVE no susume,  
Tsubasa wo hiraite, atarashii mirai e!"_

Soichiro knocked on the door. "Hello? Hello, Shiina-sensei?" He opened the door.

"UWAAAAAGGGHHHH! WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE?!"

Jin blinked. He _recognised _that voice. There was only one person he knew who had such an exaggerated screaming voice, it just _had _to be-

A naked man streaked past them, clutching a pair of pants to his crotch.

"Hello, Sorata," said Jin.

The naked Sorata, who was bright red all the way up to the tips of his ears, said, "WHAT IS THIS I DON'T EVEN."

Then he ran into the bedroom and hastily slammed the door shut with a resounding thud.

"Well, that was awkward," said Jin.

"You _know _that guy?" asked Soichiro.

"Old schoolmate from Sakurasou."

"Sakurasou, huh? That explains it."

They were both very calm. Jin found himself idly thinking that the scene would have been immensely improved if Sorata were female.

But wait, what was Sorata even _doing _here? He couldn't mean that this artist friend who had a block was-

The pieces instantly clicked in Jin's mind. He made for the door and poked his head around it. "Shiina-sensei?"

The woman sitting in the centre of the room turned her head around slowly and nodded.

Mashiro Shiina was a very quiet and understated person. She seemed somewhat different from how she did on television. (Everyone did.) Despite the fact that she said very little, her presence was very real. It was as if her eyes bore into one's soul. She was mercifully fully clothed. It appeared Sorata had in fact been modelling for her, judging by the half-finished painting on the canvas. Another couple of paintings were lined up against the wall, all looking very similar to each other.

_Let's see_, thought Jin. Sorata had spoken to him on the phone about Mashiro five days earlier. He had asked him what was the big deal about sex, which Jin had paid little heed to at the time. If Sorata had been modelling nude for Mashiro during all this time, then that probably explained his fixation on sex in that conversation. Suddenly, everything made perfect sense.

But to think Sorata Kanda had a relationship with Mashiro Shiina, of all people. Jin would never have guessed Sorata had it in him.

At that moment, Jin heard the front door open once again behind them.

"Oh, hi, you're early." It was a blonde woman, who was carrying a bag of groceries in her arms. She walked up towards them, smiling. "I'm Rita Ainsworth, Mashiro's agent."

"Pleased," said Soichiro. They shook hands.

Jin was very impressed with Rita Ainsworth. She seemed very sensible and professional. Briskly, she led Soichiro back to Mashiro's room, all the while talking about art. Before the two of them closed the door, Rita turned to Jin. "You can come in too if you like. Oh, Sorata's probably in the other room. If you want a cup of tea, he can make you one. He's Mashiro's boyfriend, by the way."

"As I discovered," Jin said dryly.

Rita's eyes went towards Sorata's discarded shirt and underwear on the floor, which Jin also happened to be looking at. "Give that to him, won't you?"

Grasping Sorata's clothes in one hand, Jin knocked on the bedroom door with the other. "Are you dressed? I come bearing gifts."

"J-Jin-san?"

"That's me."

Sorata opened the door. He was by now fully dressed. Blushing, he took the clothes from Jin. "Um, what are you doing here?" he asked.

"I should be asking you that," said Jin. "But I see how it is."

Sorata covered his mouth with his hand. It looked as if he was still rather speechless by what had happened just before. "U-Um," he stuttered, "Shiina and I, we aren't really like that."

"You've been helping out for her, haven't you? It's nothing to be ashamed of."

"Well, as long as you get it…" Sorata was still rather red in the face. He tried to breathe out slowly. "So, uh, what are you doing here?"

Jin explained his side of the story. As he spoke, he could see Sorata visibly calming down. The poor guy, Jin thought. The poor, poor guy.

"So how long has this been going on?" Jin asked curiously, after he had finished his recount.

Sorata scratched the back of his head. "Not long, about five days, I think… It's a long story."

"I like long stories," said Jin. "I am a novelist, after all."

They went to the kitchen, where Sorata set about making a cup of tea for Jin, who sat at the bench. As the hot water boiled, Sorata began to talk.

"Like I said before, don't get the wrong idea about me and Shiina. I've just been helping her out lately. She likes to paint me, you see, and she doesn't want me out of her sight because of that. Rita-san said she'd pay me so I took some leave from my job and moved in here for now."

It was hard _not _to get the wrong idea, from the way Sorata described things. Jin watched on in amusement as Sorata seemed to realise this himself. His face went rather red again.

"It's not like that, I swear! She's just… When I realised what her hygiene was like and how she can't cook, I just… well, I couldn't just leave her alone, could I? But she's definitely not interested in me that way."

"So let me get this straight," said Jin. "You live with her, clean for her, cook for her, model _nude _for her, but you don't sleep with her?"

"Well, um, yeah," said Sorata lamely.

"What a shitty investment of your time," said Jin. He watched as Sorata poured his tea for him. Then he remarked, "You're a fine maiden, Sorata. I think you'd make a wonderful housewife one day."

"Shut up, it's complicated!" Sorata insisted. "Rita-san tells me she's really been drawing a lot more since I've come here, and that's the main thing."

"I suppose it would be," Jin replied, unable to stop the amusement from showing in his eyes. It actually didn't surprise him all that much that Sorata had a chaste relationship with Mashiro. He was a nice guy. Probably _too _nice. "I assume the cats are yours, too, then."

Sorata looked surprised. "Yeah, how'd you know?"

"Remember how you got into Sakurasou in the first place?"

Sorata laughed at the recollection. "Oh, yeah. Gosh, it feels like nothing's changed, now that you're here."

It suddenly struck Jin again how young Sorata looked for his age. He had remembered thinking this the night they had first met again at the theatre. Sorata could probably have been mistaken for someone ten years younger than him. It was hard to believe he was thirty years old.

Meeting Mashiro Shiina had been good for his constitution. He probably hadn't realised it, but he was looking better than he had ever been. She had brought colour to his life. The only person he needed now was Misaki. It wouldn't be Sakurasou without her.

"Your youth's really not that far behind you, you know," Jin remarked. For some reason, his mouth felt like ash as he spoke.

"Huh?" said Sorata.

Jin finished downing the last of his tea. "Have you ever thought about what _you _want to do?" he asked finally.

Sorata hesitated and looked down. "Isn't it a bit late for that?"

"Don't use others as an excuse to neglect yourself," Jin said.

Sorata smiled ruefully. "Jin-san, I-"

The door of the kitchen swung open and Rita walked in. Sorata stopped what he was saying to glance over at her. "Soichiro wants to talk to you," Rita said.

"M-Me?"

"You're a model, aren't you? He just wants to ask you a few questions. Mashiro wants to see you too."

"O-Okay," said Sorata, blushing. "Excuse me."

Soon enough, he was out the door.

Rita's gaze turned to Jin next. She was a good-looking woman, Jin decided. There was a striking confidence in the way she held herself that made her seem more attractive than her physical, tangible looks did.

Rita sat down next to Jin with a smile on her face.

"Soichiro's friend, right? Jin?" she asked. "Doesn't it warm your heart?"

"What does?"

"Oh, _you know_."

She was quite obviously talking about Sorata. Jin chuckled. Actually, he knew, he had been a hypocrite talking to Sorata earlier. This woman didn't know a thing about Jin's history, but he knew all too well. Jin found the idea of reliving youth an impossibility. He had, after all, no intention whatsoever in seeing _Mouretsu ni Nemuru_.

(Likewise, he wondered if Misaki had even read _Mushoku no Midori-iro_. It was simply his bestselling book – he was nowhere near the household name she was. Only librarians, critics and other writers really knew who he was.)

"I'm quite happy with how things are going," Rita went on happily, blithely unaware of Jin's thoughts. "At this rate, Mashiro will have enough to show at the exhibition. It's all thanks to Sorata, of course. Mashiro's quite taken with him."

Jin smiled at that. The way Sorata told the story, it sounded like quite the opposite was going on: that she didn't care that much for him at all. But Jin knew he couldn't trust Sorata's perspective on that.

"They seem rather suited to each other," he remarked. "I didn't think Sorata would go so far for someone he barely knows."

"Isn't it obvious? He's madly in love with her. But he won't admit that to me. He tells me it's her art he's in love with."

She said that with a snort, as if she believed what he said to be a flimsy excuse.

Jin shook his head. "I think he was telling you the truth."

"Well, Mashiro's art is very pretty," Rita conceded. An understatement, of course, but no one here was trying to do justice to Mashiro's art with words.

Personally, Jin was moved more by stories than by artwork, but he could not deny Mashiro's prowess. The paintings he had glimpsed at in the studios were of exhibition quality, there was no doubt about that. To him, it wasn't out of the realm of possibility that Sorata would be so captivated. He would have no doubt have felt the same, had he had been in that position.

"I have a theory," Jin said, leaning back in his chair. Rita looked at him curiously and in wordless expectation. "A work of art tells you more about the artist than about the subject. Loving an artist's work is like loving the artist. To reject his work, which he has put a part of himself into, is to reject that part of his soul."

As he spoke, he grimaced slightly, and when he glanced at Rita, he saw the same kind of shadow on her face that he recognised in himself. She understood perfectly what he was talking about.

In that instant, he saw the veneer of her beauty was totally gone, replaced by something twisting and utterly hideous. Sad, too. Like a broken, desolate widow.

He blinked and so did she, and that was when the moment passed.

"You're very wise," she remarked lightly.

Jin closed his eyes and thought only of how he was foolish.

* * *

When Jin looked back on his life, Sakurasou was a turning point. Such was the nature of high school and youth. Sorata might say he had rediscovered some part of the old days in meeting with him again, but to Jin, those were definitely days long gone. At thirty-one, he could barely remember how it felt to be a teenager. The only thing that felt constant was Misaki, but that was because, well, she was _Misaki_.

He had been cruel to her, was still cruel to her, but still she followed him around like an energetic puppy that never seemed to lose its zeal. He had loved that about her, and even as he kept her at arm's length, he felt hungry and eager about her, wanting to know more and more and more. She needed no protection, except perhaps from him. The knowledge of that was what tore him up from the inside. The more he came to love her, the more he felt absolutely certain that she exceeded him in every meaningful way.

"When I become a writer worthy of standing beside you," he had said to her (they still lived in the same dorm back then), "I'll come back to you."

Misaki hadn't understood what he meant by that. How could she? She was a genius.

"Just stay with me," she had told him, her bright eyes dimming with disappointment. "Why can't we be how we were as kids?"

"I want to study in Osaka," he said in answer. What he really meant was: "I want to get out of your shadow."

And he did. Jin Mitaka graduated with honors from Osaka University. The potential had always been there, for he had been a valedictorian in high school too. He majored in scriptwriting and held a minor in Japanese literature. He had grown quite a lot as a writer during his time as a student and had already written for several literary publications. His teachers praised him for the sharpness and maturity in his writing style. But nobody ever called him a genius.

He came for Misaki after he graduated, bearing the script he regarded as his masterpiece. He had not shown it to anyone else. He had kept in close enough correspondence to Misaki to know that she already had a position as an assistant director – he even dared to dream that his script would be animated by Misaki's hand once again.

That day, he never forgot the look of pained confusion that came over her face as she read his writing. It was only then that Jin realised that for all these years he had spent apart from Misaki in order to improve his skills, he had learned less than nothing. Maybe he had even lost sight of the feelings that had once inspired him. In his calculated, cynical dialogue, Misaki no longer recognised the clever, gentle boy she knew. He could only stare in vague horror and sickening disappointment as the monstrosity that was his art robbed the girl he loved of her smile.

He snatched the script out of her hands. "I'm still revising it," he lied to her quickly. "One day, I'll write a story you'll love, I swear it."

He burned the script as soon as he got home. Then he got to writing again. He tried writing happy, optimistic stories, about lovers finding their way to each other. But the reviewers hated these stories, criticising the emotions for feeling cheap and phony. "It lacks the artistry one would expect from Jin Mitaka," they wrote scathingly. The comments hurt him deeply. He knew within himself when his writing was not satisfying. Nobody needed to tell him he was forcing the story out. But what else would make Misaki happy? Who was he writing for now? His style came from deep within him; he could not change the way he put words together any more than he could change the range of his voice.

This, he realised, was the true gulf between hard work and talent. A genius was unbounded by genre or form. Jin Mitaka could never claim to such pretensions.

In the end, he went back to writing sombre, tragedies. Only then did he find success as a writer. He could no longer bring himself to see Misaki – he had no more right to make her happy than a worm did. He was what he was. He assumed the distance of time and emotions would cause their fragile connection to fade. Perhaps it would no longer be such a sore spot then.

"What about Misaki-senpai?" Sorata had asked him that night they had met again.

What about her indeed? In a twisted way, she was still his muse, for no woman he had ever been with or ever would be with could capture his imagination the same way Misaki had. He only knew love now by the definition of what it was not.

But he knew that Sorata would never understand any of that, and so he did not speak of it.

Of course, it didn't surprise him that Sorata did not like his writing either. He could see it in his eyes.

* * *

"Something up, Jin?" Soichiro asked him.

Jin was driving. They'd finished their visit to Mashiro Shiina's studio quite some time ago. Soichiro said he'd found out what he needed. "Hm?" Jin grunted.

"You haven't been saying much," Soichiro said to him. "Tired, are you now? Let me drive, then."

Jin waved him away and asked a different question: "Mashiro Shiina's art, how did it look to you?"

"It looked a lot better. Still missing a little something but I think that's down to taste," Soichiro said. "It was less Impressionistic."

Impressionism – the kind of art style used by painters like Vincent Van Gogh and Claude Monet – was, in Soichiro's opinion, one of the biggest influences on Mashiro's art. It had something to do with the bright colours she used, apparently.

"I actually think she was trying to draw anime-style," Soichiro went on. "She had this poster of _Mouretsu ni Nemuru _in the studio. Kanda told me he took her to see the movie and she liked the art in it."

This news took Jin aback. Misaki was influencing _Mashiro Shiina _now?

His instinct was right. Everything was interlinked. His meeting with Sorata Kanda, Mashiro Shiina's art… It was all uncanny.

"Speaking of _Mouretsu ni Nemuru_," Soichiro said, "you're never going to see the movie, are you?"

"I've been putting it off," Jin explained lightly.

"You're not seeing it."

Jin said nothing for a moment. Then he sighed. "Is there anything wrong with that?" His hands gripped tighter on the steering wheel.

"It's nothing but your pride that's stopping you from accepting that anime offer," Soichiro declared bluntly. "I've been thinking that for a while."

The thing about Soichiro was that he was usually right. He was only ever wrong for intelligent reasons. "Don't think I don't know that," Jin said heavily. "Look, I'm too tired to have this conversation."

He had been thinking of nothing but it during that visit to Mashiro Shiina's place. He was by now convinced that it wasn't Mashiro herself that caused everything to move, but the forces at work around her that set everything to motion. He couldn't be like Sorata and forget his pride for the sake of a girl. A part of him wished he could.

"You're just avoiding the issue," Soichiro said. "But anyway," he added, as the car came to a halt, "thanks for the lift."

"You're welcome." Jin poked his head out the window as Soichiro climbed out of the car. The lights inside Soichiro's house were on and from this distance he could smell Saori's cooking wafting in the evening air. "It's not like I don't appreciate what you tell me," Jin said, as a way of farewell.

Soichiro nodded curtly at that. "I know."

Oh yes, Jin really was envious of men like Soichiro and Sorata. To allow oneself to fall in love rather than to understand it, feel it and to then look down on it through a telescope – it had to be something very much like bliss.

After Soichiro was gone, Jin was alone. He drove closer and closer to home, but his mind wandered further and further away. He thought: _maybe today I'll write a new novel_. Myriad opening sentences flitted through his mind, each carving out a new definition of loneliness.

But where did stories really begin? Why that particular line? When did the feeling of loneliness ever really begin and where did it end? He wondered if, one day, his creativity on the subject of loneliness would ever dry up.

The lines swam endlessly in his mind, just waiting to be pulled out. Jin rounded the bend and come upon his house. He was anticipating the feeling of getting to his laptop and letting the words flow. Yet as he was parking, the words in his mind stilled to a total halt, as if hitting a dam. Jin stiffened. The sentences seemed to leak out of his brain entirely. He looked out his car and towards his house and only one opening – the reality of what he was seeing in front of him – could suggest itself to him. No, it _demanded _to be told that way.

He saw the woman he was in love with crouched on his front doorstep, shivering from cold and the kind of withering emptiness he recognised because he knew he had inflicted it. When she caught sight of him, her face mustered up a cracked, fragile smile – not fake but shattered, like broken clockwork.

"I've been waiting for you all day," she said.

"Misaki," he whispered her name, horrified. "What are you doing here?"

"Jin, I don't care about your writing or my anime. Why can't we just be friends how we used to be? Why did we have to grow up? Oh, Jin… Jin, don't go."

She was murmuring incoherent words now, burying her face in her hands. She didn't cry, for she was just so drained. He couldn't stop himself then. With two quick strides, he was at her side, pulling her into his arms.

For a while, they stayed there like that, unmoving, as if they were stuck in a painting. He didn't know how long time lasted. All he knew was the feeling of Misaki leaning against him, her softness and her limpness.

He wondered, painfully and bitterly, if it was already too late for them.


	5. II - The Only Dreams are in Monochrome

**05 – The Only Dreams are in Monochrome **

"From now on, we're locking the door whenever you paint," Sorata said to Mashiro. "Shiina, are you listening to me? Shiina!"

She nodded wordlessly.

"Good," said Sorata, breathing a sigh of relief. He didn't want a repeat of yesterday. He would have enjoyed Jin's visit much, much more if he had not been naked at the time. "You have no idea how much embarrassment you cause me."

She lifted her brush from the canvas and peered at him.

"Do you want to leave, Sorata?" she asked him.

"Er, well, not _exactly_, but…"

She was staring at him expectantly.

"You know what? Forget it," he said, feeling unexpectedly flustered.

It had been a week since that first night and he still didn't know quite how to handle Mashiro Shiina. He did not fully understand why she thought she needed him, but he could sense her desire to be with him. Since that first night, he had come to terms with the idea that she didn't seem to want him as a lover. There might be no physical intimacy between them, but the pleasure of being appreciated was a simple yet unexpectedly good feeling. In other words, he was using Mashiro too. The feeling was mutual.

One day, Rita turned to him and said, "You haven't had sex with Mashiro yet? I've been paying you all this money and you still haven't done your job."

He gagged. That was random. "See, the thing is that I'm not a gigolo!"

"That's true," said Rita reflectively. "You're more like a live-in house maid."

Sorata scowled.

"Sorata," Mashiro called out to him coolly, "if you're a maid, why don't you wear a maid outfit?"

"Pay me all you want, but there are some things money can't buy," Sorata replied.

"Then I'll paint it."

Sorata wept in remorse for his non-existent dignity.

That was usually how their conversations went.

The routine went like this: in the mornings, he got up early to make breakfast and hang out the clothes. He sorted Mashiro's outfits (including her underwear, much to his consternation) and left them on the dressing table in her room to change into. Then he would wake up, for Mashiro was no early riser. Fortunately enough, she at least knew how to dress herself. Though there had been a few awkward skirmishes when she had forgotten to put on a towel after taking a shower, on the whole, the two of them cohabitated peacefully. Mashiro walked about as if she had her head in the clouds and when she sat down to paint between meals, it was as if she was channelling all the energy in her mind and onto the canvas. Sorata found her just as fascinating to watch as she found him.

Rita would usually drop by at around lunchtime and she invariably complimented Sorata's cooking. She brought food, art supplies and the occasional visitor. Everyone she brought came for Mashiro and though Mashiro was never very wordy, the visitor always seemed to leave satisfied. Sorata stayed out of the way during these times. Seeing other people talk to Mashiro so familiarly left a dry taste in his mouth. It was these kinds of moments that reminded him that she was really, when it all came down to it, a lot more accomplished than he was, and everyone else in the world knew it.

It was amazing how quickly Mashiro worked. Though she seemed to dislike most of the paintings she drew and left them curled up on the floor for Sorata to clean up later, whenever she painted, her hand was steady and every stroke deliberate. No movement was wasted.

Personally, Sorata could not see much of a difference between the paintings Mashiro seemed to like and the ones she seemed to hate. They all seemed the same to him. When Rita came by, she could point out what was wrong with it, but it was very slight and apparently had nothing to do with technical skill, but rather some kind of intangible "expression".

"That's the way modern art has gone, you see," Rita explained to him. "It's less about technique and more about the ideas. No painting will work if it's drawn for the sake of being drawn."

"Oh… I see…" Actually, Sorata didn't get it at all, but okay. If it looked good, it looked good. Personally, he liked Mashiro's art a lot better than that awful Cubism stuff.

An idea occurred to him then. "Rita-san, are you an artist?"

He noticed her hesitate.

"Rita-san…?"

"Well, sort of," she replied finally. "I was a professional just like Mashiro when I was younger, but you probably never heard of me… now I just paint for a hobby."

"You were a professional?" He was impressed.

"More like an amateur-professional," Rita admitted. "Like I said, I was never that famous. Mashiro and I attended the same art school, so we went pro at the same time and our paintings were shown at the same exhibitions." She smiled ruefully, a slight shadow coming over her face. "Her paintings caught on and mine didn't. That's the way the art world works sometimes."

"Oh…" He wasn't sure what to say to that.

"Well, there's no arguing Mashiro's a genius, but Joe Bloggs off the street could draw a crock of shit and suddenly become famous, as long as it's unique enough," Rita went on dryly. "It's a cruel world, I guess. And your paintings only really sell well after you die," she added with a snort.

Yet Mashiro had become renowned. That hadn't been just luck – Sorata was certain of it.

"But if Shiina was always a prodigy," Sorata said, "why did she get artist's block? I asked her, but she said she didn't know."

"There are many reasons for something like that," Rita said. "The public, you know, they really like to see novelty acts. When Mashiro was young, she was held up as a prodigy for her age, but now that she's older and her art style hasn't really changed, they've gotten a bit tired of her."

Sorata glanced at Mashiro. She was still painting quietly, as if she hadn't even heard their conversation. He got the feeling that she was used to people talking about her while ignoring her actual presence.

"Do you think that's true, Shiina?" he asked her directly.

"I don't know," said Mashiro quietly. "There are many things I don't understand."

"Shiina…"

He was convinced that Mashiro didn't understand these things precisely because she was so special. It was all so beneath her and she didn't even realise it.

Later on that day, as Rita was leaving the studio, she called Sorata over to her and said:

"You know, you're not the first man I've tried to set up with Mashiro."

He blinked. "H-Huh?"

"She's beautiful and talented. When we go out, men flock to her," Rita said in a confidential whisper. "But as soon as they find out what she's like, they leave and don't come back."

"Why's that?"

Rita smiled with half-lidded eyes. "It could be that's she so high maintenance, like you've seen yourself. But it's more than that. Mashiro destroys people."

His heart sunk. How could Rita say that? Mashiro was… _Mashiro was…_

"She's not like you or me," Sorata insisted.

"Let me tell you something," said Rita. Again, the shadow had come across her face. "The more you put her on a pedestal, the more you'll destroy _yourself _in the end. You'll hate her because you love her. That's how it usually is."

He didn't know what to say to that.

She went on. "To be honest, I don't really have any faith in men. Maybe that comes from being divorced. I thought you'd think with your dick – just have sex and then leave. Now I don't know what to make of you."

Sorata was stunned. He hadn't given any thought about what Rita expected him to do, why she would _ask _him to make love to Mashiro. That kind of opportunity didn't usually present itself in real life, did it? He'd accepted her explanation then, but for the first time, he became conscious that there was something deeper in her words. She'd had an ulterior motive all this time, but he just couldn't figure out what it was.

"What are you talking about?" he asked, frowning. "Am I a hindrance?"

"No, no, stay as much as you want. You've been good," she assured him. "I'm just… surprised. I didn't think my plan would work out this well."

He swallowed. "Do you… really mean the best for Shiina?"

"I do," she insisted, smiling. "I really mean the best for her. It's all for the sake of her art. But I just thought… a broken heart would do her good too. It would shake up her life. Her art would change forever. I really thought that's what you'd do to her."

He felt sick suddenly. How could she smile as she uttered such cruel things? How could she even _think _that breaking Mashiro's heart would be good for her?

"I'm not leaving yet," he declared stubbornly. "I'll help Shiina make a painting she's proud of."

She turned to look back over her shoulder at him before she went out the door.

"Good luck," she said cryptically, "whichever way you go about it."

* * *

He hadn't heard from Jin since his visit. He was probably busy these days, Sorata figured.

Actually, he missed Jin. Living with Mashiro was tiring at times – but more exhausting than cleaning up after her was the feelings she inspired in him. Ever since that conversation with Rita, he became ever more conscious of the divide between him and Mashiro. He just couldn't help thinking about it. That was how he was. Jin would probably tell him what to do, but Sorata couldn't just ring him up and pour out his emotional problems. Men didn't do things like that.

The truth was that, after his declaration that he would help Mashiro, he realised he did not know how to follow through on such a promise. Was he just meant to do what he had always done? Actually, to be honest, he thought Rita overestimated his worth. There was no way he could break Mashiro's heart when she just saw him as an object. He wondered what would happen if he just quietly backed out of the deal now.

One thing he couldn't ignore, however, was that he still wanted Mashiro. He couldn't forget that first night. Some part of him still couldn't help but get excited and hope that she would touch him whenever he shed his clothing for her. But if they went down that route, he definitely wouldn't be able to back out anymore. Rita had seen that. That was why she had said those things…

Damn it, he was overthinking things again. It happened every time – he always found himself _wavering_. Why couldn't he just be like Mashiro and do the things he wanted? He would if he actually knew what he wanted.

To distract himself, he started taking Mashiro during the days. "It's to expand your world a little," he explained to her as he showed her the temples, the Tokyo Skytree, the famous crossing in Shibuya – all the iconic landmarks in Tokyo. He enjoyed these outings. Mashiro listened attentively to whatever he said and sometimes she would jot a few sketches. It was all very peaceful, tranquil even.

By the fifth outing, Sorata found himself able to converse fairly normally with Mashiro. He asked questions about her life and how it had felt to grow up in England. Mashiro had been all over Europe and even to America, he discovered. He asked her who her favourite artist was. She said she liked them all, but for different reasons.

He found she had excelled in regular academics too. She took the A-levels in England, though she had always been tutored and had never been to a public school. She confirmed that she went to the same private art school as Rita did and said Rita had been her best friend growing up. She said this simply and unassumingly.

The more he got to know her, the more he could only shake his head silently in admiration.

(The one time he thought _okay, I'll take that back _was when they visited Akihabara.

"Hey, Shiina, what's that book you're reading? Do you want me to buy it for you?"

"Yes, please."

"Okay, sure, give it to me... SHIINA, WHAT IS THIS?"

"It's a book."

Sorata threw up his hands.

The book was called ECCHI NA TENTACLE NO HON, by the way.

"Shiina, this is porn," he said flatly.

"It's art."

"Listen you. If you even _think _about drawing me in one of those poses-"

"I won't," she said. "I'll draw myself."

"That's even worse!")

In a way, he realised later on, the time they spent together like this was more intimate than all the occasions she had seen him naked. Mostly, he thought that because of the one time she turned to him solemnly and said:

"Sorata, I am having fun."

"Shiina, I didn't know you had a sense of fun," he said incredulously. "I mean, you never laugh."

Mashiro blinked once, expressionlessly. "Do you want me to laugh?"

"Well, sure, that'd be nice."

"Ha ha," Mashiro chuckled tonelessly. "Ha ha ha ha."

"Yeek," said Sorata, laughing a little himself. "You sound evil."

"Heh heh heh heh heh…"

"Okay, now you're freaking me out!"

The honest truth, he realised, was that he had fun with her too, even with all that exasperation. And as soon as he became aware of that, he wondered: _is it already too late? _The thought absolutely terrified him.

As time went on, the harder it became to sort these thoughts in his mind. The turning point came two weeks before the exhibition. That was when he got a call from a boss.

"Doormat-kun," his boss grunted, "when are you coming back to work?"

"I, uh..." responded Sorata stupidly. Actually, he had no idea himself.

"I saw you, you know. At a shopping mall. You're not sick at all. The hell you're taking sick leave for?"

Sorata's stomach fell. _His boss had seen him_. "I, uh..." he repeated himself.

"It's been, what, a fortnight since you've stopped coming? Come back, Doormat-kun. Otherwise, I'll have to - you know that old, obscure saying? - fire you."

"That's not an obscure saying! It's pretty clear, actually!"

"You know what I said."

His words struck Sorata. His boss meant to fire him. That would make sense - he really hadn't been doing his job ever since Mashiro came along. Even though Rita had promised to pay him, taking care of Mashiro wasn't really a _job_. It was just something on the side. That was what it should have been all along.

"Listen, Doormat-kun," his boss was saying. "You're a decent chap, and also you're the only one in the department who actually works while we go out for drinks. I really, really don't want to let you go. You shouldn't live a life of regrets, Doormat-kun. Be like me. I smoke a packet of cigarettes a day and I regret nothing."

"You will when you get lung cancer," said Sorata.

"Life is all about the_ moment_. Are we not humans? Should we not seek pleasure at every avenue? That is the moral of the story. Don't bother saving money, just use your credit card. It's good for inflation."

"Please stop trying to play the role of the wise old man. Your advice is terrible."

"So when are you coming back?"

Sorata's mouth was suddenly dry. "I... don't know," he mumbled. He needed to be with Mashiro. What if he was away from her? What would happen to her? What if-?

He shook his head. He needed to make a choice, didn't he? The answer was pretty obvious, really.

"I'll be back in two more weeks," he said. After the exhibition, Mashiro wouldn't need him anymore.

Two more weeks. He would be back to his normal, boring life in two more weeks. Mashiro would be gone. He wouldn't have to worry about anything as obtuse as breaking her heart after that. Suddenly, putting a number on the duration of their relationship made it all seem so pitiful.

* * *

"Sorata, you never tell me about yourself."

"What about me?" he asked Mashiro, puzzled. It was their sixth outing and they had decided to eat out at a restaurant that night. He had been asking her questions about herself as they ate, and this was the first time Mashiro had turned the conversation right around. Talking to her was invariably a markedly different experience from just thinking about her. The realities never quite measured up. "My life is pretty boring, not nearly as interesting as _yours_…"

"I want to know," she said simply.

He chuckled sheepishly, getting caught up in the flow of the conversation. He could never be as direct as she was. "So what exactly do you want to know?"

"Have you ever been in love?"

He promptly spluttered out the tea he was drinking.

"Don't ask such personal questions so suddenly!"

"Rita said being in love is like floating. She says everyone my age has been in love before."

Well, that was probably true, Sorata thought. His puberty years were well behind him now.

"You want to know if it was like that with me too, huh?" he asked her, calming down. Mashiro nodded and he sighed. "I don't think I have any deep insights on the subject," he admitted. He was certainly no poet.

"Okay," she said, still peering straight at him. Then she asked, "Will you still live with me after the exhibition?"

"Huh?" said Sorata, blinking.

"Rita also said you'd only keep staying with me if you were in love with me."

"D-D-Did she now?" Sorata said nervously. He coughed into his napkin awkwardly. "You know, it's not really as simple as that..."

"Are you in love with me?"

"_Look, Shiina_," he said through gritted teeth, wondering how on _earth_ she could utter something like that so casually, "we haven't really known each other for that long and-"

"If you leave, I'll stop painting."

"... What?" he croaked out weakly. She couldn't be serious.

"I'll have nothing to paint," she repeated herself.

Sorata was dismayed. Of course. Mashiro was always serious. What he was more disappointed about was himself - how a very real part of him lit up with relief at the idea that she would keep wanting him around.

He tried very hard to suppress this feeling. Outwardly, he sighed. "This can't keep going on forever. I've got commitments, Shiina. It's not really a matter of feelings. I'm sure you'll find someone else who inspires your muse eventually."

"Then get out of my head," she said suddenly, her eyes widening slightly.

"What?"

Mashiro's pale white hands clenched around her chopsticks, shaking a little. "There are so many things I don't understand."

He could see it instantly. The knowledge that time was running out for all of this had never felt so painful and real. It wasn't just some weird, lucid dream he was having. Everything about Mashiro Shiina was like a dream, he realised. It had been a mistake to get so close in the first place. No matter what he did now, he would regret _something_. All of a sudden, he wondered what had come over him. Taking leave from his job, being at some woman's every beck and call... for _what _exactly?

"I'm sorry, Shiina," he said, turning away abruptly. "I'm fine with seeing you, but..."

He stopped. If he kept talking, he would accomplish what he least wanted to do.

"Anyway, let's not talk about any of this for now," he said finally. He had years of experience in sidestepping the issue.

* * *

It was then, for the first time in a long time, he found himself thinking about Nanami Aoyama. It was because he was thinking of all his regrets.

Back in high school, Nanami Aoyama had brown hair and wore a ponytail to keep it out of her eyes. She had never been striking in the way a woman like Mashiro was, but she had an air of unassuming prettiness about her. Her kindness made her seem more beautiful than she actually was. She had a cute smile. These were Sorata's thoughts even before he began to take notice of her more deeply.

He had finally managed to get out of Sakurasou in the fall by finding a kindly old lady two suburbs away who was willing to take care of his cats. Nanami went with him, explaining that it was on the way to her drama school (she was training to be a voice actress back in those days). Everything went smoothly. "Make sure you feed her lite milk, not the full cream," he said to the cat's new owner. "Hikari likes crabsticks a lot, but only give them as a treat! Hikari, I'll visit you every week, okay?"

"Kanda-kun, you really love cats, huh?" Nanami said to him afterwards, laughing. "I think one day you'll be a darling old cat lady yourself."

"I'm not getting a sex change anytime soon, thanks."

"Oh, I was complimenting you!" Nanami insisted. "I think you're very kind. I think that's really nice to see in a boy."

"Not really," Sorata mumbled, scratching his cheek. "I think you're the nice one."

"Um, really?"

"Really."

They laughed a little awkwardly at that and cast frequent glances at each other when they were on the train. They made a habit of doing this every week whenever they visited Hikari and the other cats.

Sorata admired Nanami. Whenever he saw her, he noticed how hard she worked, always ungrudgingly. Nothing she attempted ever seemed to come easy for her. One day, having nothing to do, he sat in during one of her rehearsals at her drama school and found himself struck by the sheer effort and passion she put into her voice acting. Nanami was always busy, so they never hung out together after school like teenagers normally did, but Sorata made the time to drop by her part-time jobs and check up on her. She always seemed to appreciate that and he would get to see her smile. As far as transactions went, he could have done a lot worse.

Still, at that time, Sorata did not feel entirely satisfied with his life. At first, he had been ecstatic about leaving Sakurasou. Yet deep down, he found himself – not missing Sakurasou exactly – but feeling somehow bored. Like he was waiting for something to happen that never did.

His life drifted along more or less aimlessly. He was still a sophomore, so there wasn't much point thinking about entrance exams. He played video games during his free time and sometimes he came up with ideas for a good game in his head, though he never wrote them down. His parents sent him an allowance, so he didn't need to work. Inevitably, his mind turned towards girls. He found himself getting closer and closer to Nanami as the year progressed. Eventually, she eclipsed all other thoughts.

Characteristically enough, it took him a long time before he could make up his mind whether or not he liked her. He decided that he did during the school festival, when he felt relieved after hearing that Nanami had turned down their classmate Miyahara, who had confessed to her. Of course, after that, he could not bring himself to make a confession of his own for fear that she would reject him too. He figured it was okay like this. At that time, it was impossible to imagine Nanami out of his life.

"It would be great if you could achieve your dream," he would keep saying to Nanami.

And she would smile and thank him and tell him she'd keep working hard.

Time continued to pass. The anticipation of seeing Nanami at school made his boring, colourless days more bearable. One day, instead of finding her in the classroom where he expected her, she was gone. Anxiously, he looked all over the school for her. But she wasn't there.

So he asked her friends. They looked at each other uneasily before they answered him.

"She's transferred out," they said, and Sorata's heart sunk.

"What do you mean? Where is she?!"

"She failed her audition."

"No…"

"She's gone back to Osaka. Her parents never approved of it. They only gave her one chance."

"_No_…"

Sorata was numb. He turned around and quit the conversation.

He spent the rest of high school in a sort of daze, not remembering anything much. Nanami had not told him that she had failed. She had left, leaving no burden of responsibility or guilt upon anyone. She had kept all her pain and sorrow to herself. It was so like her. He had never felt so betrayed.

At the same time, he knew what he should have done. He should have told her all his feelings sooner. Then she would have trusted him with all of hers. The two of them had reached a converging point in their destinies and he had not acted when he had the chance. Now it was too late.

As the years passed, he felt less bitter about what happened, but the faint tingling sense of regret still remained. He never did experience that sense of crushing disappointment Nanami must have felt that day she learned of her failure. He never committed himself fully enough to be hurt so deeply. Sometimes, he found himself wondering what Nanami was doing from time to time, but as the years went by, he thought of her less and less. She became just another amalgam of his regret, needing no name or face.

Then, three years ago, just before he had moved into his flat, he got a letter from Nanami. She was getting married. She had tracked him down to ask him and a few other old school friends to come to her wedding. It was like a high school reunion, except he didn't know half the people at the ceremony. He stuck with Miyahara and talked about old times. When Nanami came by, her face a perfect picture of a blushing bride, Sorata said, "Congratulations." He meant it.

Later on, during the reception and after the two of them had had a few drinks and loosened up, they talked about their high school days together.

"Did you know?" she said to him, her face red from the alcohol. "I had a huge crush on you back in high school."

"Same here," he admitted. They laughed about those old feelings. They had been in love with each other but had never told it to each other. How silly that was!

Then she told him what had happened to her dream about becoming a voice actress. After finishing her higher education in Osaka in adherence to her parents' wishes, Nanami had went back to Tokyo and tried, once again, to pick up a few voicing roles. It never became her primary occupation, but she did manage to have supporting roles in a few obscure anime. And that, to her, was enough to justify all the hard work she had ever done. She said she was proud of herself. Nanami Aoyama had lived through many disappointments but never through any regrets. She no longer needed him.

After the wedding, he decided not to keep in contact with Nanami and not to tell her about his changed address after he moved. It wouldn't be proper for a bachelor like him to be so close to a married woman. Besides, he heard that she was having a child soon enough and that would keep her busy. But most of all, he had realised that the paths they walked were so completely different now.

She got married in the fall. The sakura leaves had dried up and died, scattering in the winds, a symbol of lost and withered dreams, never to bloom again.

* * *

Sorata peered up at Mashiro.

He knew if he did not say anything, this story would end just like all the others.

Rita's foreboding words flashed through his mind. What did he want for Mashiro? He knew he had to choose. If he didn't, if he just let this go like everything else, he would come to regret ever meeting her. He knew this to be true, because that was how it had been all throughout his whole life.

And yet still...

He exhaled slowly, feeling himself coming to a decision. He would not speak of it to Mashiro. He hadn't made love to her or even kissed her - so technically speaking, there was no relationship between them in the first place. He wouldn't be doing anything wrong by becoming distant. If he did it gradually enough, she wouldn't be so upset.

It would be just like with Nanami. He could live with that. It was his world.

(No, he didn't want it to be like that at all. Not another missed opportunity. She made everything so interesting.)

He would let her down gently.

(No. Stop it. Don't do that. No.)

In the end, his life would be back to normal.

(Remember that dorm full of weirdos? Remember what they became?)

He shivered. His head ached.

"Sorata?" Mashiro said his name, the faint hint of a question in her utterance.

"Huh, Shiina?" He turned away quickly, unable to look her in the face. "It's nothing much. Don't worry about me."

"Sometimes, you seem sad, Sorata."

"Don't feel too sorry for me," he said with a slight chuckle. "I caused all my own problems."

His sister's words passed through his mind: _"You worry so much you never step out of your comfort zone because you're afraid of failure."_

He was doing it again. He was picking the safe option and he was going to regret it.

"Sorata?"

"Stop looking at me like that, Shiina!" He was startled by how strongly those words came out. Mashiro blinked once. Quickly, he backpedalled. "Sorry, I didn't mean to yell at you, I-"

"If you want to leave me then you can leave."

Even as she said those words, her face was expressionless. She blinked again and looked out the window to her right, towards the night sky.

He could not take his eyes off her. She said everything was fine. "...Shiina?"

"I still don't understand," she said quietly, closing her eyes.

He stared. It wasn't because of anything she did but simply because of how she _looked _at that moment. She seized his attention and imagination like no one else ever could. She was just so beautiful and ethereal. And yet... he had never realised how dainty and fragile her appearance was, like delicate china.

He wanted to reach out.

(Remember what Rita said.)

He wanted to touch her face.

(He could still back out.)

No.

He just didn't _know_.

"Shiina," he said softly, waving a hand in front of her face. "Shiina, are you awake?"

She opened her eyes and nodded.

"Shiina, you don't really... need me, do you?"

Mashiro did not say anything to that.

"You just..." Sorata looked down. "I stand out to you because I'm so _colourless_. That's what you said. I'm no one special. You'll forget me as soon as I leave. I know..." He closed his eyes and breathed deeply. "I know."

The pang in his chest was impossible to ignore.

"I'll never match up to you, Shiina," he went on heavily. "I still don't know why you think you need me, but thank you."

Mashiro blinked once, slowly. He looked away, unable to hold her penetrating gaze.

"And that's why... even though I know you'll forget me and I'm just getting ahead of myself, I still... I want you to paint the best painting you can do, but only on your terms. I'll be your…" His voice started to waver. "Your friend. I'll be your friend, Shiina."

"Friend," she repeated, staring up at him intently.

"Right," he said, nodding. "I'll still want to see you even after the exhibition. So don't listen to Rita-san. I don't know about love but there's no reason I'd avoid you. If I can help you, I'll help you."

He felt as if he was stepping into unknown waters for the very first time. It was so precarious and yet so exhilarating. A small tentative step away from his sea of regrets, but it was enough. Was this how Yuuko had felt boarding that plane to Vienna?

He leaned back in his chair, feeling the smile spread slowly across his face.

"I want to help you too," Mashiro added suddenly. For the first time, a flicker of uncertainty seemed to cross her face. "The only thing I can do is draw."

"It's fine," he said quickly. "It's enough for me. As long as we want to be friends, we'll be friends, right?"

The uncertainty peeled away from Mashiro's face. She nodded.

"Then it's decided," he said to Mashiro with a smile. He would fight fate. He would make sure Rita's horrible plan never came true. He would not break Mashiro's heart.

He knew even then that Mashiro Shiina was a famous painter who travelled the world and he was just a lowly salaryman who had never been out of Japan. He knew it would be impractical, that it could never last. He knew, he _knew_ – he just simply couldn't bring himself to care for once. In that single blinding instant, everything seemed so perfect and sublime.

He wished later on that it was possible to bottle feelings, for it was gone all too soon.

Moments later, his cellphone rang. Sorata blinked in vague surprise – the caller was Jin.

"Hello, Jin-san?"

"Hello, Sorata," said Jin's voice, sounding unnervingly calm.

"Um, what's up, Jin-san?"

"I'm not quite sure where to begin, really," Jin responded whimsically.

Sorata frowned. "Why did you call, then?"

"To put it bluntly," said Jin, "I fucked up."

Sorata held the phone to his ear, his expression frozen. "What did you say?"

"I fucked up," Jin repeated himself. "Well, that's all I wanted to say. Glad I could talk to you, Sorata. See you another time."

"Wait! Don't hang up! Tell me what you _did_!"

"You know those moments in your life when you feel like if you'd done something just slightly different, your whole destiny would have changed? It's Misaki. I've ruined everything. _Jesus. _I need a fucking drink."

The bitterness in Jin's tone was overwhelming. It cut too dangerously deep. This was his true soul, as Sorata had seen from his writing. He had always known there was a kind of darkness in his old friend, but even knowing that, he could not help but feel utterly shaken by what he was hearing.

Somewhere, he could dimly perceive Mashiro still staring at him across the table, regarding his changed expression with vague puzzlement.

"I don't understand what you're saying," Sorata insisted. "What about Misaki-senpai?"

"She came to my house. Been years since I last saw her. We talked. Tried to make things work again. It didn't."

"Where is she?"

"Who, Misaki?" Jin asked with a cold chuckle. "I don't know. I let her go."

"Damn it, Jin-san, what's wrong with you?" His attitude unnerved Sorata. It was just like his stupid book! "Okay, where are _you_?"

"At my house."

"What's your address?"

"_Jesus, _Sorata!" Jin exclaimed. "You're not coming over here?"

"Just tell me your address already!"

"You're like Hamlet. Always so indecisive, and then suddenly impulsive when the mood strikes."

"Do you think I give a damn about some fictional character?!"

Jin just kept laughing with that same cold chuckle. Eventually, though, he did tell Sorata his address.

Sorata put down the phone.

He had no idea what was going on with Jin and Misaki. All he knew was that he wanted no more regrets. All those days at Sakurasou and with Nanami lay stretched out in the recess of his mind, a spectre that eternally haunted him.

"Shiina," he said suddenly, not looking directly at her but rather frowning at the phone clenched in his hand. "I don't have the time to take you home. I'm going to go now. I'll give you money for a taxi, or you can come with me."

Her response didn't surprise him. "I'll come with you."

"Okay," he said, taking her arm and leading her swiftly out of the restaurant they had been in and towards his car.

He was never more conscious then that he was running towards another converging point of his destiny – and not just for him but for Jin and Misaki and everything that had ever happened in his past and ever would happen from here on out.

But this time… this time he had Mashiro. Around him, the cold, dank Tokyo night seemed to burst into technicolour brilliance, swirling with abstract paint strokes and vivid, exquisite patterns. It was a beauty beyond the world of the imagination, more real than what was in front of him. Holding Mashiro's hand tightly, he dashed towards a future that he could not even begin to comprehend.


	6. II - The Color of Kindness

**06 – The Color of Kindness**

It had started to rain. Slowly and ploddingly at first, then gradually it picked up intensity. Sorata turned on the flashlights in his car and constantly wiped the windows as he drove. He had a problem. Whenever he drove to a new address for the first time – especially at night – he usually got lost. Pelts of rain slid down the window and the puddles sloshed against his car's tyres. But Sorata merely clenched his teeth together and focused entirely on the road in front of him. He would not let his discomforts deter him.

Beside him, Mashiro sat in the passenger seat. She asked no questions. "I'm sorry, Shiina," he apologised to her once again. "This has nothing to do with you."

"I'm fine with it."

"Heh." He smiled, albeit a little grimly, for he was concentrating on his driving. It wasn't the furious chase scene he had envisioned, but even with his slow, deliberate pace, it required all of his attention. He could hear the rain pattering against his car repetitively as if it were trying to obstruct them. With careful precision, Sorata turned the corner into a dark, unpopulated neighbourhood, identical to the one he had just driven through.

Damn it, what was going on with Jin and Misaki? A vague part of him wondered why he was doing all this for two people he barely knew anymore, but now really wasn't the time to think anymore. He just _knew _that if he didn't do this now, something he had always been searching for would slip through his fingers forever. Jin had spoken to him for a reason. They had reunited for a reason. Even if Sorata did not know _why_, it was enough.

The rain had picked up, whipped around by a relentless wind. He could barely see what was in front of him. He cursed, slowing down the car even further. It would be foolish of him to rush in this kind of weather. There would be absolutely _no one _walking about outside at this hour-

He stopped his car altogether at that point, staring outside the window.

"Sorata…?" Mashiro spoke his name questioningly.

"I don't believe it," Sorata muttered to himself.

All he could hear was the rain and the sound of the wipers on his window at work.

He had stopped outside of a park, complete with a slide, swing and seesaw. Everything was clouded with darkness and grimy wetness. The swing was moving back and forth – someone was sitting on it.

It was hard to make out the person's figure from this distance, but it was clearly someone too big for swings.

It couldn't be…

"Misaki-senpai…?"

Whoever it was didn't hear him, of course. The rain drowned out whatever noise he could make. Whoever was sitting on that swing was looking more and more like a drowned dog by the second. Without pausing for further thought, Sorata climbed out of the car. "Stay here," he called back at Mashiro, before stepping headfirst into the rain.

He was pelted from all sides. Inadvertently, he stepped into a sizable puddle and felt the water and mud ooze into his shoes. His clothes were drenched. Sorata covered his head with arms and kept his gaze on the swings. "Misaki-senpai!" he called out. "Is that you?!"

He couldn't even make out the person's gender, even as he got closer. Whoever it was kept their head down and didn't seem to hear him. He finally got within an arm's length of the person. A fresh assault of rain shook him and chilled his very bones.

"It is you, isn't it?" he said. He was now looking straight at the person's downturned head.

In his memory, Misaki Kamiigusa had always been so… bright. He could see her in his mind's eye: cheerful, upturned smile; a boyish crop of brown hair; eyes that sparkled with manic energy. This person he was looking at had something of the same hairstyle and body figure as he had remembered Misaki having, but everything else was gone. Fizzled out.

At last, she seemed to hear him. Slowly, her head tilted up, revealing hollow eyes and a drenched face.

"Who… are you?" she asked him hesitantly.

"It's me, Sorata Kanda. I… used to live in the same dorm as you back in high school."

"Oh, really." She spoke with no interest. It was clear she didn't remember him in the slightest.

For a moment, Sorata looked away, down at his sodden feet. The coldness of the weather touched him to his very core. He could only shiver.

After a moment of this, he couldn't take it anymore. He didn't care if Misaki remembered him or not. Now wasn't the time to get reacquainted.

"I think it's better if you get out of the rain," he said. "You'll catch cold."

She said nothing.

In desperation he grabbed her by the shoulder. "At least come with me. My car's parked right over there. It's not much but-"

"I'm not an idiot," she said suddenly.

He was taken aback. "Huh?"

"Look, _sir_, I don't even know you. Why would I get in a car with you? Are you some molester or something?"

He could only blink, feeling the force of the rain slapping against his eyelids. This wasn't the Misaki-senpai he used to know. The way she spoke so tonelessly chilled him far more than the rain could. All this time he had envisioned how a reunion between him and Misaki would go. She would smile and tackle hug him energetically like she did back when they lived together and things would just _click_, kind of how it did with Jin.

It hit him like a slap in the face – this wasn't high school anymore. They could never go back to those days. He was just a stranger to her. He could never get her to come with him.

"But…" He tried again anyway. "You're so _drenched _and-"

"Just go away," she said flatly. "It's none of your business."

"Misaki-senpai…!"

As soon as he uttered her name, she was frowning. "How do you know my name? Are you some kind of creepy stalker?" She stood up. "Don't follow me!"

It was as if all the good feelings and intentions within him were being shredded apart with those words. He felt physically winded, unable even to speak.

She was stomping off. Sorata opened his mouth and closed it. It was all so _futile_. Finally, though, while the back of her was still in his sight, he managed to gasp something out: "I'm Jin-san's friend!"

But either she hadn't heard him or she was simply ignoring him, because she didn't turn around or even hesitate. Soon, she was gone, and the rain obliterated all tracks of her ever being there. All that remained was simply the unceasing rain and a gaping sense of loneliness.

Sorata swore under his breath.

"Damn it, damn it!" Where had all his resolve gone? Was this too much for him? What the hell had Jin even _done_? For the Misaki he remembered to be so non-existent…

He shivered. The cold was getting to him. He could barely even form coherent thoughts right now.

It took all of his energy to drag his feet back to the car. When he got there, Mashiro was still sitting in the passenger seat waiting for him.

"Sorata, you're wet."

He grimaced, feeling his wet clothes stick to his skin. His suit was probably ruined. It was the least of his concerns. "Don't worry about me, Shiina," he said through gritted teeth as he firmly shut the door. "It's time to find Jin-san."

He turned on the car engine and set off once again.

Everywhere, his thoughts were in a mess, criss-crossing in jagged angles. _Oh, Misaki-senpai_. Damn it, damn it, damn it.

"Damn it!" he yelled aloud.

"…Sorata?" It was clear from her reaction Mashiro had never seen him this angry before.

He was trying to breathe slowly, but he couldn't stop his own aggravation from escalating. "I couldn't think to do anything! I'm such a fool! Why couldn't I stop her?"

Mashiro said nothing, retreating into silence. It was better that way.

It turned out the park had been close to Jin's house. After about ten more minutes of careful driving and referring to his GPS, Sorata found the address he was looking for. It was one of those fairly well-to-do Western-style houses that did not especially stand out among others in the street, though that could have been because of the rain. Sorata did his best to shield Mashiro from the downpour as he made himself over the front door and rang the doorbell.

Jin opened the door almost immediately, looking slightly bedraggled. His eyebrows arched when he caught sight of Mashiro but he had the sense not to keep them waiting by asking questions. "For God's sake, get inside," he told them. "I can't believe you came here in this weather." His tone was half incredulous, half reprimanding.

Sorata and Mashiro walked inside the front hall. Jin closed the door behind them. Then Sorata turned around and punched Jin in the face.

"Wh-What was that for?" Jin demanded, more in shock than in anger.

"She was out there in the rain! I saw her! I bet you made her cry, you bastard!"

Jin froze. He whipped his face towards Sorata, a strange gleam coming into his eyes. "Is that true?" he said quietly.

Sorata quickly explained the incident with Misaki in the park. Jin walked a few paces and then collapsed in a nearby armchair, holding his forehead in his hands. He closed his eyes and simply groaned.

Just like that, the anger faded out of Sorata. He instantly got the feeling that he was out of his depth here, that Jin and Misaki had a history he could not even begin to fathom. A whole eternity of stories with no beginning or ending. It just… was.

"Jin-san… I…"

"I didn't mean for any of this to happen," Jin said simply and calmly. Even now, he was restraining himself. "I'm sorry to involve you in any of this."

"What happened?" Sorata croaked out. He felt so inexplicably weary and tired, even sitting in the living room with a fire on.

Jin shrugged slightly, sending Sorata a meaningful glance. "Why don't you change out of those wet clothes first? I'll lend you a shirt. Shiina-san too."

… Right.

The pauses stretched out. Sorata and Mashiro went into separate rooms to change. Jin's house was plain and tidy, dotted with antiques and a few paintings here and there, but mostly it was filled with silence and a vague kind of emptiness. When Sorata emerged from Jin's room wearing his shirt (it was one size too big for him) he found Jin sitting next to the fire with his fingers and his eyebrows knitted together. Sorata sat opposite from him and together they simply sat there, the need for words having seemingly evaporated. Sorata thought of all the missed opportunities and regrets and wondered what would happen if Misaki were here to break the silence. There couldn't be a Sakurasou without her.

Finally, Jin started to speak. "The day I came to see you, I came home and found her on my doorstep. She was waiting for me. God knows how long. Probably all day. No, longer than that, maybe her whole life."

Sorata was silent. Jin continued:

"I invited her in. We talked. She said she wanted us to be friends again, just like the old days. I said sure, okay, fine. I wanted to try. Maybe after seeing you, I was just in the mood for nostalgia, I don't know. Anyway, it was a mistake."

"How so?" Sorata asked, not fully understanding.

"Because it's something we've tried before and it didn't work. Going back to the old days? We've changed too much for that. She keeps expecting me to be someone I'm not and I keep expecting her to be someone she's not. We know it but we just can't help it. Being childhood friends with someone isn't all it's cracked out to be."

"But… don't you love her?" Sorata looked away, wondering if he was probing too deeply or if this was how it was meant to be. "It's just… I kind of remember Misaki-senpai once saying something like it doesn't matter how far apart you are, as long as you have those _feelings_…"

He expected Jin to laugh like he did in the phone – that cold, cool chuckle. But he didn't. He kept his face totally even.

"I do love her," Jin said matter-of-factly. "And she loves me. But the way we are now, we bring out the worst in each other. I guess that's what you'd call an incompatible couple.

"It was the little things that broke us. Not any big arguments. She kept seeing little things in me she didn't like and it was the same for me. Little things that made you think, 'that wasn't how things used to be.' It's hard to explain, but you get it, don't you?

"A couple of hours ago, she said she'd had enough and we were civil enough about it. I didn't think she'd go out and stay in the rain. I was feeling pretty bitter myself. I just wished we didn't have any of these expectations, that I didn't let those little things pile up over the years. It's never the one thing. That's what I meant when I told you I fucked up. I let it go too far without meaning too. I don't think we can ever be fixed, Sorata. Please don't take it on yourself to try."

"But… But…!"

Jin shook his head. "I appreciate your good will, but there are some regrets that you can't ever change."

Of course, Sorata knew all about that. He glanced over his shoulder at Mashiro, who was standing at the doorway with a blank expression on her face. She evidently didn't understand this conversation. Sorata was thankful for that; all she was doing was peering at him.

"It's just like in your story," Sorata said, turning back to Jin. "You were thinking about Misaki-senpai when you wrote _Mushoku no Midori-iro_, didn't you?"

Jin closed his eyes. "How did you know?"

"I didn't think anything when I saw it with my sister. But after I met you again and then read the book… I realised. The story was a tragedy. I hated that."

Jin's expression was resigned. "I know you did, Sorata."

This time, it was Sorata's turn to shake his head. "It felt like you had given up," he said. "The whole story was just one huge regret. That's why…" He gulped. "That's why it spoke to me," he admitted.

He thought back to that day he had read Jin's novel for the first time and how it had kept him awake that whole night. That day, something in him had changed. He found himself more aware of the mistakes he had made in the past. Maybe the honest truth was that he didn't hate the story; he just simply could never bring himself to enjoy it. What was the point in reading stories if one didn't enjoy them?

"I think that's how Misaki-senpai must have felt too, reading that," Sorata went on. "She must have thought you had given up too."

Jin seemed to consider that.

"I think you're right," he said frankly. "As for me, I always thought her works were an escape for her. A desperate clinging to her youth through her imagination. I read the same message in her anime that she read in my writing."

It was because they were so close to each other that they could see that, Sorata realised. Just how many strangers would have gotten the same message? Not that many, because Sorata himself hadn't even noticed until the gears were set in motion.

"But you know, Sorata," Jin said suddenly, "even though you're right, it's not that simple. Feeling jealous of the person you love is the worst feeling in the world. You want to tear them down and keep them close to you, forever. Misaki is happier being free. I honestly believe that." He looked directly at Sorata. "I think you'll understand that feeling one day."

A part of Sorata thought that he already did understand and he tried, desperately, to bury that knowledge. "Even so…!"

"Ha," said Jin, smiling, "I do feel better now, though. I couldn't talk to Soichiro about this. But you, Sorata… you're as much of a romantic as you've always been."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Sorata asked suspiciously.

"Take it as a compliment," Jin answered with a laugh. "Well, I think you've done enough for an old friend for this one night. Why don't you and Shiina-san stay the night? It's getting late."

Sorata peered at Jin. It struck him as – well, not entirely _strange_, but certainly questionable – that Jin would smile and laugh and talk wryly, and all the while be secretly acknowledging the darkness he had long ago resigned himself to. He probably thought it was no use getting so caught up in emotions. It just didn't feel right to Sorata, like a chord played on an off-key piano.

Thinking about it, Sorata supposed Jin was right – he _was _a romantic.

"I'm not staying," he declared. "I'm going to find Misaki-senpai."

Jin stared at him. So did Mashiro.

"You've got to be kidding me," said Jin.

"I'm not," Sorata insisted. As he spoke, he realised only then how firm he was on the matter. "I'm not going to just let this go. You're incompatible, you say? Screw that! If the two of you love each other, then what's to stop you being together? All your talk just made it out as if it was just something in your head! You can't change the past, but you can move forward! Together!"

Sorata stared defiantly back at Jin.

From the looks of it, Jin was honestly taken aback. He blinked several times. Then, after a pregnant pause, he burst out laughing.

It wasn't just his usual wry, self-deprecating chuckles. It was a real, hearty laughter, the likes of which Sorata had never heard from him before. He even doubled over and clutched his sides helplessly.

"Okay, now you're embarrassing me," Sorata mumbled.

"Sorry," said Jin, wiping a tear from his eyes. "I don't know what to say. I'm not sure if I even want to discourage you. It's just… you told me she doesn't even remember you."

"Oh, right," said Sorata. He had forgotten about that. It wasn't like he _wanted _Misaki to be so out of character. Even with Jin's story as explanation, it just didn't seem right. He certainly couldn't leave her alone, knowing what he knew.

Jin was still chuckling a little, his mouth upturned in a genuine smile. "You'd really try and do all that, Sorata? Really?"

"Well, yeah," said Sorata. "You're my _friend_, Jin-san."

Jin finally finished laughing. His mirth slowly faded and he looked Sorata in the eyes. "Then find her," he said seriously. "Bring her back to me."

"I will, Jin-san."

Sorata made his way towards the door. Fortunately enough for him, it seemed as if it had stopped raining for now.

"You know, Sorata," Jin said quietly, standing up. "Back in Sakurasou, you always said we were the crazy ones… but now I see in a way you're the nuttiest of the lot."

"Is that how you talk to someone doing you a favour?!"

"Don't you think so too, Shiina-san?" Jin turned to Mashiro.

Mashiro nodded solemnly.

"That's a fine sentiment coming from you," said Sorata. "But whatever, I don't even care anymore."

Turning swiftly around, he walked out the door with his head held high and the resolve written across his face. Moments later, he was back to get his car keys, which he had left in his coat pocket, and to sheepishly ask Jin for Misaki's phone number.

* * *

He was out on a quest to find Misaki. Much as Sorata cared deeply about his old friends, he knew that he was really doing it for himself. To prove that it was possible to move forward. If he couldn't even achieve this, then what hope did he have of ever making his own life work? He wouldn't be worthy of standing with someone like Mashiro – she would never let the past get in the way of what she truly wanted.

First, he checked the park. As he expected, she hadn't returned. It had stopped raining by now, but the wind blew coldly outside and Sorata found himself sneezing and sniffing a little as he searched outside.

It was time to ring up Misaki, he decided. She probably wouldn't answer his call but it was worth a shot…

He was surprised when she actually responded to his voice.

"You're Kouhai-kun, aren't you?"

Her tone was still rather toneless, but the recognition was in it. Sorata blinked in surprise, clutching the phone to his ear. "How did you…?"

"Jin rang me and told me you'd be calling." Misaki's voice sounded vague and thoughtful. "Kouhai-kun…"

The memories played back in Sorata's mind's eye, like a reel. Misaki ambushing him in his bed and spouting nonsense stories, her decorating the dorm with cabbages, her random semi-nudity. Oh _god _she was such a weirdo.

"Come back, Misaki-senpai," he said, feeling the desperation in his voice.

"Geez Louise," said Misaki. The more she spoke, the more of her old self she seemed to regain. "I'm _sorry_, Kouhai-kun. I was really out of it! I didn't recognise you at all, hahahaha! Not till Jin told me it was you!"

Sorata thought it said something that even after leaving Jin, she would still respond to his calls.

"You're really good friends, huh?" He smiled; there was still hope.

"Me and Jin? Of course," said Misaki, though some of her enthusiasm seemed to dry up a little as she spoke. "Doesn't matter how much we change, we'll always be _friends_…" Her voice trailed off.

"Then come back," Sorata told her.

"First matter of business, Kouhai-kun! Come find me! Let's play hide and seek!"

He spluttered. "Wh-_what?!_"

"Jin said you're looking for me! If you want to fix our relationship, you have to find me first!"

"That's logical, I suppose… Wait, hang on, we're not in kindergarten heeeeeere!"

"Close your eyes and count to ten! You're 'it'!"

"Where am I supposed to find you in this huge neighbourhood?! And why am I even playing along with you?!"

Abruptly, the tone of Misaki's voice changed. "Do it for me, Kouhai-kun. The truth is, I'm afraid to be found."

Then she hung up.

Sorata tried ringing her again a few times after that, but she didn't respond. She was serious about this game they were playing. What did she mean about not wanting to be found? She was probably afraid of what would happen next... of facing the truth.

Right, he thought. Two could play at this. The first thing Sorata did was drive off to the nearest convenience store and buy a flashlight. Then he returned to the park and started his search from there. He searched around the bushes, he searched under the slides, he even checked the sandpit, but Misaki was nowhere to be found around here. From there, he started to spread out his search, leaving no corner unchecked.

He was cold. The night was absolutely _miserable_. Why was Misaki subjecting him to this? Yet for some reason, with each step he took his feet felt lighter. He was stepping past all the heavy things that had once coated his mind and heart. He felt _free_. Whatever chains still held Jin and Misaki to the ground, he would untie them.

"Misaki-senpai! Misaki-senpaiiiiiiiii!"

Even though she didn't respond to his calls, he smiled. She was just hiding from him. He would find her – he would most definitely find her. The minutes ticked away. Sorata settled more and more into search mode.

"Ready or not, here I come!"

As he ran and looked around himself fervently, his feet stepped into the puddles that were left from the rain. He didn't care if his socks were wet. He threw up his head and laughed into the cold, empty night sky.

* * *

He found Misaki crouching behind a street lamp about a kilometre away from the park. As Sorata walked by, casting his gaze this way and that, she crept up behind him. "Boo!"

He screamed, dropping the flashlight.

As for Misaki, she just laughed helplessly and clung to his back. Sorata didn't even bother reaching for his torch. He just stood still and smiled, letting Misaki hold onto him for a little while longer. The night was still young, still promising so many things when the morning came.

She laughed and laughed and laughed, so hard that she cried. Or maybe she was crying so hard that she laughed. As the moment drew on longer, Sorata found that he was unable to tell the difference.

He reached one hand for her and patted her gently on the shoulder. "Misaki-senpai, are you all right?"

She drew back slowly and he turned around. Misaki's hair was still frazzled from the recent downpour. She was beaming brilliantly as glistening tears rolled down her face.

"I've never had so much fun," she said, stretching her arms above her head. "Thanks, Kouhai-kun. It's been a blast."

_Oh, Misaki-senpai._

He stepped forward and grabbed hold of her arms. "You are coming back to Jin-san's place, aren't you?" he asked her.

She was still smiling, blinking the tears out of her eyes. "I don't think so, Kouhai-kun. Once was enough."

The game had come to an end. Sorata stepped back, feeling a familiar stab of hesitancy in his heart. He shook his head. He had come too far to let his indecisiveness carry him now.

"I always thought you were weird," he admitted. "But Misaki-senpai, you were my friend, too."

He meant what he said. He really did. Even if he had said he hated Sakurasou, Jin and Misaki had always brought colour to his life. Leaving them behind and no longer acknowledging them was just another one of his deep-seated regrets. But they were still people and they still existed. Friends. It had been such a long time since he had ever felt that word to be appropriate.

"Oh, same!" Misaki chirped. "I'm so sorry I forgot you. Maybe if you came at a better time, things would've been different. But it's okay now. I really, really think so."

"Then why don't you…?"

"Because something like this, it's just one chance, isn't it?" Misaki stared up at the night sky. In Tokyo, it was impossible to see the stars. "To be honest, I don't think I'd have the energy to do this again. I've… gotten too old, Kouhai-kun."

He'd always thought that Misaki was a creature beyond the influence of aging, but it turned out she was human too. She'd seemed so energetic through what she created, but then it was possible for creators to be distant from the works they made too, to pull it out from the far-off tendrils in their minds and to hide behind it. A story wasn't real.

What mattered more to Sorata was the living, breathing woman who in front of him. He wondered desperately how he could change her mind. If he let things go here, then the strings that bound them all together would remain tangled forever, and nothing would ever have any meaning.

He had to make Misaki come back. Not just for Jin's sake, but for his own. He realised that.

"Well, yeah," he admitted with a wistful smile. "But I guess it's kind of fun, isn't it? Even to do it just once…"

"Yeah," she said, smiling too. "I know I can't go back to Jin expecting everything to be like before. It'd be like we're just living in the past."

"But it's okay," he said, taking her hand. "It's okay, Misaki-senpai. I'm older, you're older – but we're fine, aren't we?"

He had no idea how else to phrase it. His heart was pounding relentlessly as he held her hand tightly. _Please get through. Please get through._

She looked at him, her expression curiously blank and impossible to read. What was she going to say? His heart was in his mouth. He didn't want her to leave. No more. No more. This was his only chance, right here and now.

She opened her mouth and said this:

"Kouhai-kun, have you gotten superpowers since I last met you?"

Okay, that took him off guard.

"What's with the random nonsensical question?! It's completely out of context!"

Misaki just grinned. "You've got this cool, determined look in your eyes! It's like you're a hero from a shonen manga!"

"Yeah, I'm pretty sure that's your imagination," said Sorata, not feeling very impressed.

"Tell you what," said Misaki with a laugh. "I think I _will _come with you, Kouhai-kun. Maybe you're what we needed to shake us out of the habits we've fallen into. To be honest, I barely even recognise your looks anymore. If Jin hadn't told me…"

He was distant enough not to have fallen into the same status quo his old friends had found themselves in, but close enough to still make a difference.

His heart leaped at her words. He had done it. _He had done it_.

Sorata smiled and felt like laughing and crying too, all at once.

"I think you're the only one who could have done this for us," Misaki said to him. She squeezed him in a tight bear hug. "Thank you, Kouhai-kun!"

"I'd feel happy too if I weren't dying from suffocation here!"

Eventually, she let go, and this time, she did say yes to getting in the car with him. As soon they were inside, they sneezed in unison. They glanced at each other and laughed. They were definitely going to have a cold once all of this was said and done. Sorata couldn't say he was looking forward to getting sick, but he was too busy living the moment to care. He would regret it later. That was fine.

When they got back to Jin's house, Jin was waiting for them at the front. He smiled and waved as he caught sight of the car driving into the driveway.

"You did it," he said to Sorata, sounding impressed.

Sorata glanced sideways at Misaki. She was looking at Jin, looking hesitant. Jin's eyes flickered towards her and Sorata watched on as their gazes locked. For a moment, neither of them said anything.

Then Jin smiled, and so did Misaki.

"I missed you, Misaki."

"Same here, Jin."

Jin laughed, scratching the back of his head. "Do you want a cup of tea?" Then he smiled slyly. "No, how about some hotpot?"

It wasn't the emotional reunion Sorata had expected, but those simple words said enough. They were smiling genuine smiles, if a little tentatively. But it was only to be expected. The two of them looked towards Sorata, as if expecting him to say something now.

"Yeah, I wouldn't mind," said Sorata with a sigh. "I'm buggered now."

He felt drained yet satisfied.

Misaki strode up to Jin with her hands on her hips and a wide, excited grin plastered across her features. "Three cheers for Kouhai-kun for sticking his nose in! A true man among men, like Attila the Hun!"

"That's not a very pleasant comparison!" Sorata retorted.

They laughed and went inside. Everything was coming full circle now, slowing down as it reached the finish. Mashiro was inside sitting on the armchair beside the fire, sketching something in a notebook. When Sorata came in, she blinked once and looked at him.

It was all really thanks to her, Sorata thought, feeling something in him soften. He would never have started moving past his own regrets if he hadn't had the opportunity to help Mashiro Shiina.

"C'mon, Shiina, have some tea with us," he offered to her, reaching out a hand to her.

"Call me Mashiro," she said.

"Er, well…"

"Kouhai-kun is popular with the ladies!" Misaki called out behind him. "Wait, Jin, why is there a girl in your house?! Have I lost the ultimate battle between women?! Oh woe is me!"

"Ignore her, Mashiro," Sorata said, rolling his eyes.

He only realised that he had spoken her given name after she stood up and wordlessly took his hand. A kaleidoscope of colours whirled through his mind and he smiled. He led her over to the table where Jin and Misaki were preparing the tea and sat her down next to him before letting go.

"You're one of us," he told her. He turned to Jin and Misaki. "This is Mashiro Shiina. I bet if we met her years ago, she would have fit right into Sakurasou."

"Speaking of which," said Jin, "it's not really the same without Akasaka, don't you think?"

"Poor Dragon, he's missing out!" Misaki exclaimed.

Then again, it wasn't like anyone ever _saw _Ryuunosuke back in the old days. What did he look like again? Sorata couldn't even remember.

"I wonder what he's doing right now…"

"He is with us in spirit," Misaki declared.

Sorata chuckled at that. It was good enough for now.

Being like this was different from their teenage years. Not like it mattered all that much, though. The warmth filled Sorata's chest, totally distinct from the heat of the tea he was drinking or the feeling of being indoors, away from the cold outside and everything else that was dark and lonely.

He was back with Jin and Misaki. And Mashiro was at his side too. It was everything he could ask for. The talk was lively, feeling very much like pure joy encapsulated.

"I reckon out of the three of us, you've changed the least," Jin remarked to Sorata.

"Huh?" he said, putting down his tea cup. "Really?"

"Kouhai-kun always took things way too seriously," said Misaki with a snort.

"Yeah, you were a real drama queen," said Jin.

"Nah, you're just exaggerating things," Sorata insisted.

"Honestly, Sorata," said Jin, "you were like a teenage girl."

"And you're saying I haven't changed?!"

"And Jin!" Misaki interjected. "You were always dating around! Jerk! You'd hump anything with a skirt! Hahaha!"

Sorata leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes and smiled. Yeah, they were different. They'd all mellowed out over the years. He hadn't even realised how different he was from who he had been as a teenager until he had sat with his old friends and laughed about it. It was a conversation they could only have in hindsight.

But it was funny how life went. The more he thought he was different, the more he realised he was really quite the same. He had become more like himself.

* * *

After that reunion, Jin and Misaki still didn't live together.

They decided to keep living their separate lives but to make time to see each other frequently and not to let the knowledge of their own past consume them. From then on, whenever they met, they decided to invite Sorata along too.

At that stage, everything was still fragile and tender. The connections they had could have burst at the seams at any point, but maybe that was kind of the point, and maybe that was why they kept trying. The only way to move past regrets was to stop being afraid of creating them.

As for Sorata, he was bedridden with a cold, just as expected. He sniffled and writhed about under the covers with a fever and decided that he thoroughly hated life. Defying all odds, Misaki had completely bypassed all such symptoms. She really was an alien.

About two days after the incident with Jin and Misaki, Sorata received a postcard from Yuuko in Vienna. It had a picture of the Danube River on it. On the back, Yuuko had written in her typical messy scrawl: _"I got a job. Tadashi's been playing great music. Keep running towards the future, onii-chan."_

Despite his sickness, Sorata smiled. If his sister were here with him, there were plenty of things he would have said to her.

After he recovered, he continued to stay with Mashiro, diligently caring for her and assisting with her paintings without complaint. He had made up his mind not to let himself be bogged down with worries about all of this. As the days continued to trickle by, he settled more and more into this asymmetrical life.

Mashiro was quiet as always. She never spoke about what happened that night, but ever since then, he noticed she went about her painting with a sense of quiet yet intense pleasure. Her paintings of him continued to be opalescent no matter what he did, shining with their utter colourlessness. Some part of him wondered why she would keep insisting on drawing him like that, for he knew the answer would probably depress him. Mashiro was fascinated with him because there was that much difference between them.

It was one day when he mentioned this to Jin that he said, "That's interesting."

"Huh? What is?"

"Sorata, what do you think the colour of kindness is?"

"White, I guess," said Sorata.

"I think you're wrong," answered Jin. "I think kindness, pure kindness, is colourless. It's not blank like the colour white is. I think it's opalescent."

Sorata was taken aback. He had honestly never even conceived it through that perspective. With those words, it felt like a whole new world was opening up before his eyes. He turned around and in front of them stood Mashiro, with the pure white canvas spread out before her and her eyes regarding him as if they took in every part of him.

"Sorata," she said his name quietly. She had no problem referring to him so intimately. (Of course, he still had trouble referring to her by her given name, even in private.)

As he peered straight back at her, he noticed something strange. Mashiro Shiina was smiling at him.

It was a tentative smile, like a half-finished stroke from a master's brush, but it was most definitely there. Mashiro Shiina was many things – a genius, an eccentric woman, an artist – but in that moment, Sorata Kanda could only see her as another human being, as alive as he surely was.

"You inspire me," she said as the smile persisted on her face, as beautiful as any work of art she had ever created.

And she set her brush against the canvas, painting, as she always did, from deep within her heart.

**fin**

* * *

**Author's note: **You know it's a _Sakurasou _fanfiction when the dramatic emo moment takes place in the rain.

All jokes aside, I hope you enjoyed the story! I originally intended to write more of this, but then I realised I couldn't sustain this type of writing for much longer than I did here.

A quick note about the title: _Mushoku no Midori-iro _and _Mouretsu ni Nemuru _make up part of the phrase _Mushoku no Midori-iro no Kangae ga Mouretsu ni Nemuru_. It's the Japanese translation of 'Colorless Green Ideas Sleep Furiously', a famous phrase coined by Noam Chomsky in 1957. Despite making no logical sense, it is perfectly grammatical. There is nothing to stop anyone from putting those words together. It's a line that speaks enormously about the infinite creativity humans can express out of finite things.


End file.
